I’ve never been on a motorcycle.
Trouble
First time for everything, doll.
I set my phone down and let the quiet fill in around me.
Salem hops onto the bed, headbutting my elbow until I cave and scratch behind his ears.
“It’s just a date,” I say aloud, to him or maybe to myself. “Nothing more.”
He blinks slowly and settles beside me.
I pick up the phone again and stare at the last message.
Deal. See you Saturday, trouble.
***
Saturday evening, the city is painted in golden light, every tree rustling in the wind. I run my hands down the dress. It’s black, low-cut, not quite the silk slip dress from Nashville, but close. I debate heels, then opt for the boots, imagining the logistics of riding Nash’s motorcycle.
At 6:55, there’s a rumble in the parking lot that vibrates the bones of the building. I look out and see Nash, helmet in hand, leaning against his bike. The leather jacket, the dark jeans, the untamable hair. All of it together makes me question why I ever dated a man whose idea of edge was eating ice cream without taking lactose intolerance medicine first.
He glances up and sees me at the window. I duck away, cheeks burning, but when I come out, he’s waiting for me, helmet outstretched.
“Damn,” he says, without irony or overkill. “You look…” He lets it hang, searching for a word and, for once, coming up empty.
“Don’t say ‘nice,’” I warn.
He grins. “Was thinking more like devastating. In the best way.”
I take the helmet, feeling its weight in my hand. “I’m nervous,” I admit.
“Just hold on to me. I promise not to go full tilt on the first date.” He helps me with the straps, his fingers grazing my jaw, gentle and methodical. When he’s sure it’s snug, he puts on his own helmet and swings a leg over, then pats the seat behind him.“Hop on, doll.”
The engine’s purr becomes a thrum beneath my thighs, and when I wrap my arms around his waist, it’s less out of fear and more because I want to be close to him.
The first turn nearly topples me, but Nash laughs, a low vibration through his back.
“I’ve got you. Just move with me and the bike,” he says, and after a few blocks, it’s almost natural.
We’re just out of the city limits when I realize how tightly I’m clutching him. He slows at every stop sign, checking on me with a quick turn of the head, but otherwise says nothing. The ride is fairly short, and when we pull up to Le Papillon Gris, my hands are still latched around his middle.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks as he steadies the bike.
I unclasp myself, pretending my arms aren’t still slightly trembling.
“Not gonna lie. I was a little afraid I was going to pee myself the whole time.”
He pulls off his helmet, hair springing back into chaos.
“Since my seat isn’t wet, I’m assuming you didn’t.”
He says it so simply I can’t find a comeback, so I slide off the bike and pretend my knees aren’t rubber. Nash takes my hand as we cross the sidewalk. There’s a line outside the restaurant, but he steers us to the host with quiet confidence and gives his name.
The bistro is even smaller than I remember. It’s dim, intimate, every table close enough for the next party to overhear your entire conversation if you talk loud enough. The host seats us at a table in the far corner.
Menus arrive. Nash hardly looks at his, instead watching me peruse mine.
