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It was. And rather than upset her by telling her of Birdie's visit, he decided to do something adventurous... something that he hoped would make Abigail lose herself to the night.
"Hey," she said, her eyes widening when she saw what he wore. "What are you wearing?"
He looked at his charcoal jeans and black faux-leather jacket and grinned. "I'm wearing my badass pleather jacket."
Abigail laughed and stepped inside, wearing fleece pajama pants with little kittens on them. "Pleather, huh?"
"You can't laugh when you're wearing kittens, lady."
"I thought you could play connect the kittens tonight."
And I thought you were about to make a pussy joke."
Abigail sucked in an overemphasized breath. "You dirty boy."
"You know me so well. Now, if you're brave enough to risk being a little cold, pull your jacket on, and follow me to the garage."
"Garage?" she repeated, shrugging on the puffy down jacket she'd just dropped on a beanbag chair and following him past the laundry room toward the outer door. "What's going on?"
"This," he said, stepping back and flipping on the lights. Sitting next to his innocent car was his bad boy of a hog- the restored 1972 Harley-Davidson FLH touring bike. The bright blue paint was original, as was the white leather seat and chrome trim. On second thought, it wasn't really badass as much as a work of art.
"Ohhh," Abigail said, her eyes shining at his baby. "You want to playSons of Anarchywith me?"
"I don't know what that is, but don't sell your kittens short."
Abigail laughed and it sounded like Christmas bells. "Well, then, are we going to ride it or role play on it. I can shimmy out of these kitten pants and be the bad girl who got pulled over and needs to be punished."
"I'd planned on a ride, but maybe I'll just grab my mirrored sunglasses and the handcuffs I keep in the bedside table," he joked, picking up the two helmets and crooking his eyebrow.
"Oh, let's do this. I used to date a guy in high school whose dad had one of these, but we never had the guts to 'borrow' it from him. But, wait. What about Birdie?"
"I don't have room for her," he replied, deadpan.
"Well, Alice Ann is in the cottage next door. I sent her a text that I was coming here for a drink. I hate to be unreachable.”
"We’ll just zip down the highway and back again. But if you're worried, we can stay here."
"No. Let's do it."
Leif handed her the helmet, straddled the vintage motorcycle, and started her up. She roared to life, making Abigail jump.
"Loud," Abigail yelled over the sound of the bike idling.
"Sexy," he called, patting the seat behind him. Abigail fastened the strap beneath her chin and flung her fleecy leg over the seat, clasping his hips with her kitten-covered knees. Warm and solid against his back, she made his pulse gallop when she slid her hands around his torso, resting them against his stomach. And then the minx dipped her hand lower, sliding it beneath the flannel shirt he wore, fingering the snap of his jeans.
He caught her hand and flipped on the micro phone in his helmet turning to help her do the same.
"I'll wreck if you keep that up," he drawled, shifting gears and rolling toward the rising garage door.
"We'll die happy." She laughed, squeezing him tight.
"Well, I would." He turned on the headlight and rolled out the door, balancing them with his boots, which were leather and inherited from the toughest biker he knew- they were his one leather concession. "Hold on."
"Gladly."
Leif shifted gears and took off down the street, clicking the garage shut behind him, smiling at Abigail's little squeal of excitement. She laughed again when he took the curve and hit the straightaway. Seconds later they sped down River Road, the cold air blowing in their faces, the stars winking above and the road before them a curling ribbon dividing the huge swaths of farmland. The levee buffered the wind off the river, but still it was freezing.
''Too cold?" he asked her.
