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“Do you have any allergies or food preferences I should be aware of?”
The question highlights just how much we don’t know about each other. For me, it was love at first sight. But now I need to get to know all the little details. Like his favorite color. And how he takes his eggs in the morning. If he wants kids. What he wants to do with his life. How he vacations during the summertime. “No allergies.”
Holy reaches over to grab my hand. It’s warm and inviting; it makes me feel at home. “I’m allergic to shellfish, but we usually don’t have to worry about that here in Kansas.”
One fact down, a million to go. I think I’m going to love getting to know Holy Pelham.
19
HOLY
“Relax.”
I am not relaxed. My asshole is puckered so tight I could choke an ant.
“My father isn’t going to be home for hours. And even if we drive up and he’s here, you can drop me off at the end of the block, and I’ll walk the rest of the way back.” Danielle is so nonchalant about this that I’m beginning to think she wants us to get caught.
I transfer my phone from one hand to the other, switching ears. “Are you sure? Because I would be just as happy picking you up in the Dara’s parking lot a few blocks away.” I don’t want to get castrated by an angry dad tonight. Or any night, frankly.
Danielle giggles on the other end of the phone. “It’s seriously fine, Holy. He’s on a date, too, actually. Though I’m not sure who with.”
I can hear the frown in her voice. “You okay?” I check my reflection in the mirror one last time before I head for the garage. “You sound a little disconcerted.”
“My dad just wouldn’t tell me who his date was, is all,” she sighs. I can tell that it weighs heavily on her by the sounds she makes. “It just seems silly to keep secrets from one another.”
“Aren’t we keeping a secret from your father?” I deadpan. If only she could see my face right now.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line before Danielle harrumphs in response. “Whatever,” she shakes it off quickly, “just pick me up. You have my address, right?”
She lives closer to me than I would have guessed. The Valleywood neighborhood is only a five-minute drive from her secluded neighborhood near the lake. She lives on a winding road that leads to a lesser-known entrance of Tuttle Creek Lake. “Right,” I reassure her. “And you’re wearing close-toed shoes and jeans?”
Danielle snorts before saying, “As if. See you soon.” Then she hangs up before I can protest.
I shove my phone into the front pocket of my jeans and mount my motorcycle. I told her last night that I’d take her to a restaurant outside of Manhattan for our peace of mind. I explicitly told her to wear pants and be prepared for a motorcycle ride. But knowing Danielle, she’ll come out in another summer dress.
One of these days, I’ll have to enforce my bike rules. They’re meant to keep her safe if something bad happens. I can’t let her keep getting away with breaking the rules just because I like the way her dress rides up when she’s straddling the back of my bike.
I work my way toward the lake and up Tuttle Cove Road, winding my way through the hillside until I happen upon her driveway. There’s no way to tell if anyone is home because there are no cars parked outside the garage. But as I approach the house, she comes trotting outside.
To her credit, she isn’t wearing a dress, but she didn’t do much better. Tonight she has on a little black skirt that sways with every step she takes. “That’s not bike-appropriate,” I remind her as she walks up.
“Bite me,” she says cheerfully.
“I’d love to.” Our conversation stops there as she succumbs to a fit of giggles. It’s 6:30, and the sun is still high in the sky, shining a light on Danielle’s beautiful face. “You ready for dinner?”
She finishes putting on the helmet that was left in her seat and then starts to climb on. “Of course. Where are we headed?”
“Away,” I tell her and rev the motorcycle engine before she can ask any more questions.
This ride is different than her first. She held onto me tightly that first ride, afraid she might fall out of her seat if she didn’t have something to anchor her to the motorcycle. I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest with her on the back of my bike.
Tonight her touch is a little more lax—less fearful, more enjoyment. I can feel her movements as she looks over my shoulder at the oncoming traffic.
We don’t drive far, only forty-five minutes away. Tonight we’re out at Milford Lake, just outside of Junction City. The restaurant on the lake is nice, giving us a perfect view of the water. We’re seated away from everyone else—a personal favor from a manager who owed me one.
“Wow, this is breathtaking,” Danielle smiles as she sits next to the window. “I’ve never been this close to Milford before.”
I frown across the table at her, confused. “Haven’t you lived in Manhattan your whole life?”
