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“No bike?” I ask as he pulls away from the curb.
He glances over at me, raking his gaze down my body. “Can’t wear that skirt on the back of a bike. If anything’s going into your panties tonight, it’s going to be me.”
Oh. My. God. I smooth the short hem. My cheeks heat when he chuckles.
I don’t say anything as he makes his way out of town. Once we’re on the road toward Silverton, he turns on some jazz.
“I love jazz,” I tell him, thankful for a topic other than my panties.
“Do you? Me too.”
I fidget a little. “So what do you do? I mean, for a job. At home. New York, right?”
Great, I’m babbling.
“Yes. New York. I build custom bikes. Sometimes cars, but mostly bikes. I’ve got my own business, but something tells me you already know this.”
Busted. “I know the basics from my investigation, nothing else.”
“I figure you know my blood type and dick size,” he murmurs.
I gasp and whip my head his way.
He’s smirking. “B negative, and you can measure the other thing yourself later.”
“Confident much?”
He reaches out, leaving one hand on the wheel, to run his knuckles down my cheek. “Sweetheart, I had my fingers in your pussy last night. While I never take what’s not willingly offered, I have a good feeling about you and me and later tonight.”
He’s probably right. No,definitelyright. No guy I’ve ever met in Montana is like Miles. Direct. Straightforward. I’m not saying local guys don’t want sex, but he’s…different.
“What about the bike you rode last night?” I ask.
“Bought that the other day. I’ll work on it and make her shine again, on top of projects from clients. I’ve got a bike in transit right now for one of my regulars.” He laughs. “You know the type. Rich investment bankers who like to pretend they’re bikers on the weekends.”
I join him in laughter.
He rests his arm on the center console, the tips of his fingers brushing my thigh. “But hey, I love the work, and these guys love their toys. I’m lucky I can do what I love for people who can afford to pay me for it.”
I look him over. “You don’t seem like a mechanic.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Your hands are too clean.”
He laughs again. “I wear latex gloves. The real mess is when I’m with my brothers. You should have seen them after Austin, Chance, and I broke up that dam on the property. I looked worse than the greasiest day in my shop. Besides the gloves, they make special soap for mechanics, Hopkins.”
“Right.”
I knew that of course. I’m babbling again. Clean hands. God.
“How’d you become a detective?” he asks. “Nancy Drew books?”
I have to smile that a big, rugged guy like him knows about one of my favorite childhood book series.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
He tears his gaze from the road and glances my way. “We’ve got a twenty-minute drive.”
