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We stand there, staring at each other across the width of the hole he just jumped. The spotlight is glaring and I can see his sweat-soaked t-shirt. His jacket is gone – he probably took it off in the minute or so it took me to run across – and sweat is dripping down the side of his neck.
When Zach begins to move toward me, my breathing stutters. He’s striding over, strong thighs bulging in his jeans and his long legs eating up the distance.
Behind him, I see another biker making the jump and people are cheering all around us. But it doesn’t matter.
Not to me and definitely not to him.
He doesn’t even bat an eyelash or give any indication that he knows we’re in the middle of a crowd.
Zach needs to get to me.
I know it like I know that I wouldn’t be anywhere else but here, in this moment. I’d drive that car all over again and bust my knees and scrape my palms.
I’d do it all over again just so I could be stared at with his black eyes, stalked by his equally black intentions.
When he reaches me, I crane my neck to look at his sharp and stunning face. He’s breathing through his mouth, his chest swelling under the dust-covered t-shirt.
And the first thing out of my mouth is, “You idiot.”
