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1
MARY CATHERINE
I wassixteen when I first saw the bikers.
Primarily, I noticed their rides outside our house in Westchester, where Daddy never stayed anymore and I had to hole up with Mother in suburban hell until he hauled us into the city for our ‘family duties.’I.e., church with Father Doyle and his endless sermons.
Bleugh.
It was a surreal sight to behold, though.
Amid the pristine prettiness of ‘Stepford Wife Lane,’ the royal blue bike was riderless, but the owner had dared to drive over our lawn, leaving tire tracks behind that showed the earth beneath.
Mother was going to have a literal cow over that.
As for the other bike, it was a stark, bright red with a fire pattern on its body. The rider had been considerate, however. He was currently parked on the driveway, his head tilted down as he stared at his cell phone.
With that tousled mop of hair, he should’ve looked dirty, but he didn’t. Oh, his hair was definitely tangled and in need of a brush, and combined with the bushy beard, he certainly wasn’t as elegantly attired as I was used to guys appearing.
Perhaps that was why he caught my eye and why I couldn’t stop staring as I walked toward my house.
With every step I took, the more I could see of him.
That mop on his head, which should have been a deterrent, doubled his appeal, and the massive biceps and how he filled out a Henley helped matters too. Enough that my curiosity at the reason behind the bikers’ presence in my driveway was minimal.
More focused on trying to catch as many glimpses of the stranger’s face as possible, I didn’t think about things like security or my mother’s safety…
That was when my BFF reminded me that we were on the phone together.
“Why are you ignoring me whenyoucalledme?”
“I’m not ignoring you, Sarah,” I breathed. “There’s the hottest guy in the world sitting in my driveway.”
“Sittinginyour driveway,” she repeated. “What is he? A traveling salesman?”
My lips twitched as I studied the bike. “I don’t know what he’d be selling if he were.”
“How hot is he? Jensen-hot or Harry Styles-hot?”
I mock-gagged. “Jensen isn’t hot. I don’t care if he’s the star QB or not.”
“His ass is beautiful.”
“Asses aren’t beautiful.”
“I swear you’re asexual.”
“Not a crime, is it?” I snapped, even though I’d often thought the same thing about myself.
Well, until today.
Until this gorgeous specimen crossed my path.
“He’s Charlie Hunnam-hot,” I muttered, not letting her answer me.
She whistled. “Take a picture?”
The tapping of my heels against the sidewalk finally drew the man’s attention, and when our eyes clashed and held, I was sure I felt that connection in my soul.
