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“Well, here I am.”
“Yes, here you are,” I say and throw my arms around his shoulders.
As if knowing what silly move is coming, Hobo steadies us while planting a kiss on my smiling lips. I can’t believe how incredible he tastes. I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life entangled with this man.
I hear something or maybe my brain recalls the conversation I had with Francis only minutes ago. Either way, I grudgingly free myself of Hobo’s tight embrace and peer back.
“What?” Hobo asks, sounding angry.
Studying his tanned face, I can’t keep my fingers from caressing his furrowed brow.
“As soon as I think I’ve hit the depths of my shallow nature,” I explain as I stroke his jaw, “I’ll see you again and realize I’ve gotten even more shallow.”
Hobo takes a long moment to release his face from its dark frown. He sizes me up while considering my words.
“It’s not your fault I’m so damn pretty,” he says with utter seriousness.
When I smile, his gruff exterior cracks, leaving him chuckling. I brush my thumb across his grinning lips before glancing back toward Velma’s house. Returning my gaze to Hobo, I find his amusement gone, and a cagy beast in its place.
“Francis asked me out on another date.”
“Is this a lady ploy to get me jealous?”
“No,” I reply, trying to maneuver him a little to the left so he’ll be blocked from view by the guesthouse. Of course, my attempt doesn’t budge him in the least. “I said I wasn’t in the right headspace to date.”
“Well, in that case, I want my flowers back.”
I nearly think Hobo’s serious. His expression is unflinchingly stern. But I catch the glimmer of amusement in his gaze.
“I figured making out with you in view of Velma and Francis might betray my earlier lies.”
“I could leave.”
Inhaling sharply, I reach for him and grip his shirt. “No. My mind’s been buzzing over you all day. I want to enjoy the real thing for a while.”
Hobo gives me a half-grin. “You sure are wild over me. It’s a little weird.”
“Not really. You’re ruggedly handsome and extremely kind.”
“Or you’re just lonely.”
Tsk-tsking his logic, I point out, “I already said Francis asked me out. You’re not my only option. My choice to go wild over you is just that, a choice.”
Hobo smirks. “Well, I guess, it is.”
“Will you come inside for a while and talk to me?”
Smile gone, he asks, “Why inside?”
“I don’t want my landlady to get her feelings hurt over how I want a sexy biker instead of her perfectly suitable grandson.”
“Does she really care that much?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, you might be all rattled over nothing?”
I think about how I’ve spent my day embracing what felt good rather than playing anything safe. Is my fear of Velma just another excuse to avoid taking chances?
