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He stares at the kitchen door. “I should make sure she has her own helmet, though.”
“Shoot. That reminds me, I still have your friend’s helmet.” I press my hands to the table and push my chair back.
“Relax.” Dex circles his fingers around my wrist. “You’ve had it this long, a few more days won’t make a difference. I’ll get it back to him.”
He has a point. I pull my chair in and take another bite of my eggs.
“I should take you to buy the right gear one of these days,” he says. “Gettin’ warmer.”
“You seem to ride all the time.”
He nods once. “It forces me to focus on the road ahead, instead of letting my mind wander…places.”
By the distant, almost haunted look in his eyes, he’s not talking about anywhere pleasant.
CHAPTERFORTY-THREE
Dex
After breakfast,I clean up the mess I made of Emily’s kitchen. “So what do you want to do on your day off? You feel like taking a ride to Fletcher Park or something?” I ask.
Her nervous gaze darts to the door. “I called in sick. What if someone sees me?”
She really is a good girl down to her soul. “Anyone who might see you should be at work themselves, right?”
“Oh.” Her face brightens. “That’s true.”
“You have a leather jacket?” I ask.
“I do. It’s more dressy than functional.”
“That’s okay. Wear some thicker jeans and boots with a short heel if you’ve got them.”
“I think I have something that will work.”
If I follow her upstairs, there’s no way she’ll be getting dressed any time soon. While she’s figuring out what to wear, I find my way into the laundry room. My wallet’s still on the dryer and my dick’s getting hard remembering last night.
The washer’s still sideways. I squeeze behind it and check that we didn’t knock any hoses loose.
“Dex?” Emily calls.
That was quick.
“Back here.”
I stand and pull myself out of the tight space, then straighten the machine, lining it up with the dryer.
“Doing some laundry?” she asks from behind me.
“No, smart-ass. Just checking we didn’t break it last night.”
I turn and find her watching me with surprise and curiosity. She tied her hair into two short braids. A hint of a blush creeps over her cheeks. Is she remembering how the machine got moved in the first place? Good.
“Is this okay?” She holds out her arms for me to inspect her outfit.
Thick purple plaid flannel shirt with another shirt underneath, dark denim jeans, and a pair of black leather lug-soled boots with a short but chunky heel.
“It’s great.”
