I’m blushing, and it’s not just because of his words. He’s unzipped his wet suit, and it’s hanging low on his hips. His hard abdomen leads into a delicious-looking V that disappears into his pants. There’s a small mark of black ink I don’t think I’ve ever seen before near his left hip bone. I find myself wishing he’ll ask me to take a picture of this so I can look at it again later.
I don’t have long enough to commit this sight to memory, but I want to…
I’m leaning in closer than I should to see what it is when he notices and yanks up his wet suit. “Don’t objectify me Blondie.”
He hasn’t called me that since before his crash.
27
The next morning we leave Parker and his odd little community before the sun is fully up. This last competition is at Big Bear Mountain Resort, almost three hours east of LA. The drive takes forever due to classic California traffic and Reid’s insistence we get milkshakes, but I’m not about to complain over the second part.
Our new campsite is cozy, just the two of us secluded among a bunch of ridiculously tall pines. Reid sets up our little makeshift patio with a tarp on the back of his van and two folding chairs beneath it. It’s peaceful.
Tension has been continually rising between Reid and I. I don’t know how to act around him anymore. Everyday it gets a little harder to pretend I only want to be his friend. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s trying to seduce me on purpose.
As soon as we get settled in our temporary home, Reid insists we go for a ride. “Come on, Addie. We can’t just stop training.”
“Ugh, fine,” I groan.
It’s insanely hot here. I’m sweating before we even get to the trail head.
My legs feel stronger than ever. I demolish Reid on the uphills, and I keep up on the downhills. Pride surges within me as I roll to a casual stop.
We’re dripping in sweat. Reid’s position mimics my own, leaning over the handlebars gasping for air. Salty water drips into my mouth. I lick my lips to alleviate my thirst, and Reid tracks the movement before he makes the bold decision to torture me.
Reid strips off his shirt and starts snapping pictures for his Instagram—right there at the trail head. With his helmet and goggles on, he perches on his bike, flexing his arms while angling his phone down to snap picture after picture.
I ignore it, or I try to, by focusing on the sensation of digging my shoes into the sandy dirt, but I can’t resist teasing him. “Why wouldn’t you take these before the ride? You’re disgustingly sweaty.”
His voice is muffled under his helmet. “Addie, you’re so innocent. The sweat is half the appeal.”
I swallow hard, unable to resist letting my eyes drift down his sweat-soaked abs. I see what he’s talking about now.
“Hey Addie, what do you think of this pose?”
This is what I’m talking about—it’s like he’s trying to punish me. He’s leaning all the way forward and his forearms are stretched perfectly. I can see the veins in them straining, and I can picture the way his hands look under those gloves. It’s impossible to reply. Instead, I pick up his sweat-soaked shirt and shake out the sand before throwing it at him.
“This is public indecency.”
He hops off his bike, stumbling for a second before breaking into a sprint until he’s in front of me with his arms behind his back. Flirtatiously, he says, “Arrest me, officer.”
The rest of the way back to the vans, he tells me all about how the motorcycle accounts get more likes than him. He says, “A helmet is a helmet. Why is my bike any less sexy just because it doesn’t have a motor?”
I agree with him—if anything, a mountain bike is far hotter than a motorcycle, but I don’t tell him that. I let him ramble on while we wash off our bikes.
“I mean if anything, mountain biking is sexier. At least we actually have to work for it.”
It’s wellpast my bedtime, and I’m still laying here staring at the ceiling and thinking about Reid and his naked torso. In a failure of will, I open up Instagram and scroll to his account. Right there is a full page of pictures of Reid posing with his bike in various sensual positions. They’re objectively not inappropriate, but something about his face being hidden makes them feel dirty.
The longer I scroll, the more I start to understand this helmet thirst trap thing. It’s official—I agree mountain biking helmets are sexier than motorcycle helmets. Maybe it’s the man under the helmet that’s doing it for me, the sandy brown hair I know is covered in a perpetual sheen of dirt.
I save the picture from today for last. It truly doesn’t do him justice. He looks ten times hotter in person. The caption is odd though—it’s a single sunflower. There were no sunflowers on our ride today, so it doesn’t make any sense. Sunflowers are my favorite, but I doubt he remembers that. I miss having vases full of them sitting around providing me with borrowed brightness, but I can’t have them splashing around in the van.
The longer I stare at his picture the further I melt into myself. The way I want him is all consuming, like I might disappear. He smiles in my general direction, and my entire body feels like it’s on fucking fire. I’ll be left pining after him forever,and I hate myself for it. Why can’t I fucking move on from the boy who will always see me as an annoying little sister. I throw my phone against the side of the van gently. Looking at those pictures was a mistake.
Pulling out my kindle, I attempt to distract myself with some dark and moody book boyfriend. The issue is that I don’t even like dark and moody. I’ve reread the same fucking sentence five times already, and it’s not sinking in.
I throw my kindle off the side of my bed, pull the pillow over my face, and scream. I truly cannot believe I still haven’t gotten rid of this crush. Maybe a cold shower will help? Not that it ever has before, but it’s worth a shot. I have to climb outside to take the bikes out—I’m pretty over having to do this every time I need to shower.
