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“No.” She sits up straighter. “Are you offering to teach me?”
“Sure, why not?”
“What if I mess something up? I don’t want to ruin your fancy vintage motorcycle.”
“You won’t,” I assure her. And even if she did, I’d never get upset. Because spending time with Ivy makes me happy in a way I haven’t been in a very long time.
I don’t feel so alone. And that’s priceless. Definitely worth some possible dents and scratches that I could easily fix.
Seeing that smile on her face, sharing special moments and getting to know each other better is something I want to keep doing. Maybe I’ll finally be able to let go of that lonely, little boy from Aurora, Indiana.
Without thinking, I lift her hand, press a kiss to her knuckles and say, “Hold on.” I twist the throttle and we take off. I’ve never taught anyone how to ride before, so this will be interesting. Wanting somewhere off the beaten path, I drive us out to a quiet place not far from my airplane hangar near a huge field of corn. The road is always quiet around here and I like to snag a couple pieces of sweet corn, too.
“Corn?” Ivy asks as I stop the bike.
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
She grips my hand and slides off the back. It’s a routine I’m really growing to like.
“I don’t know. It just looks like something you’d see in the midwest.”
“California grows a ton of corn. This is sweet corn, too, and pretty delicious.”
“Huh. Who knew?” Her gaze slides back over to me and she gives me a lopsided grin. “You’re really going to teach me how to drive this thing?”
“Thing?” I clutch my heart as though her word choice pains me. “Sweetness, this is not a thing. It’s a Norton Commando 850, the last great British motorcycle.”
“So what makes it so special? Other than it’s old?”
“Vintage,” I correct her. “And there are few names that have endured in motorcycling like the Norton Commando. It was first introduced in 1967 and was named ‘Machine of the Year’ for the next five years. It’s a work of art. She’s also temperamental, finicky and starts with one kick today and seven tomorrow. And who the hell knows if she’ll start at all the next day. But that’s all a part of her charm.”
Ivy lifts a skeptical brow.
“Hop on and I’ll show you.”
She lifts her long leg up and over then gracefully sits. Her attention drops to the handlebars and I get onto the bike behind her, reach around and cover her hands with mine. I could definitely get used to this. Being pressed up behind her and leaning forward, speaking low in her ear. The breeze blows her blonde tendrils up and I can smell whatever floral shampoo she used.
Calm down,I remind myself.Focus on teaching her, not seducing her.
Not yet at least.
“Okay clutch is here. And remember, this is a British bike, so you’re shifting right and braking left.”
“I guess it really doesn’t matter since I’m not familiar with doing it the regular way.”
“That makes sense.” I chuckle and run her through it all again. “Ready?”
“No, but let’s try anyway.”
I keep my hands over hers, guiding her through the motions, and when the bike jerks forward, Ivy squeals and I nearly fall off the back. When the lurching stops, I’m hanging onto Ivy with one arm and trying to help her drive with the other.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. But then the bike steadies out and she’s getting the hang of it. I relax a little, holding her close, ready to jump in if she needs me. Other than that, I let her go and she catches on fast. It’s damn impressive.
The country road is deserted and we zip past the cornfields. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun. No, wait, I take that back. When we went up in the Mustang. Lately, all my good days are because of Ivy.
Tightening my arms around her waist, her wild blonde hair is whipping everywhere and I love it. The sense of freedom is indescribable and we’re both swept away in the moment.
We’re having such a good time that it takes me a minute to notice the plane overhead. It flies over us, turns around and loops back, approaching us from behind. I glance over my shoulder when I hear it. It’s flying way faster and lower than it should be traveling.
