She couldn’t look away. It was strange—almost as if he was silently asking her to decide for him, to carry the choice he didn’t want to admit he’d already made. And why? So he could blame her if it turned awkward? Or was Gina meddling again, pushingthem together like chess pieces in a game she’d already decided the outcome of?
Nettie’s bones ached with exhaustion, her brain foggy from the day. Friends gave each other rides home. That’s all this was. If she could just keep her heartbeat steady, it wouldn’t mean anything.
“I’ve never been on a bike,” she said softly, her voice almost fragile. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Can you take it slow?”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised simply.
“Are you sure?” she asked, darting a glance toward Gina, who was smirking like the cat who ate the canary. Tate, however, was not amused. His expression tightened, darkened, as though her hesitation was another notch against him. Why did he have to take everything so personally? Why did it feel like she was always balancing on eggshells around him?
So she stopped balancing.
“If you can keep from killing me,” she said dryly, “I’d love a ride home. I’m exhausted after the day I had and really not wanting to hang around—no offense.”
“None taken.”
His reply wasn’t exactly warm, but it lacked the bite it usually carried. For some reason, Nettie suspected he secretly liked her sass.
Then he startled her by holding out his hand.
Nettie blinked at it, wide-eyed, her lips parting. The gesture felt oddly intimate, and when she didn’t immediately respond, he rolled his eyes, already starting to pull it back.
Impulsively, she caught it.
Gina made a pleased little noise, but Nettie ignored her. So did Tate. Their eyes met for a charged moment, neither speaking, before they turned together toward the hallway.
Hand in hand.
It was weird.
Weirdseemed to be the theme of the day.
The week.
Maybe the year.
Tate’s hand was large, warm, and calloused. He tugged her gently through the crowd, pulling her close as they navigated the crush of people still lingering, eager for photos or scraps of gossip. She copied his movements, ducking her head, shouldering past the stares and camera flashes.
“Mr. Cassidy?” a security guard said firmly at the exit. Tate nodded, and the guard shifted aside, blocking the photographers as they slipped through.
And suddenly—quiet.
The noise of the arena faded into a distant roar, replaced by the muted sound of car engines and faint traffic beyond the lot. Out here, in the staff parking area, it was calmer. Shadows stretched across the pavement under the dim lights, and for the first time all night, Nettie felt like she could breathe.
Tate didn’t slow. He kept his grip on her hand as he strode toward his bike, silent, focused, as though the world around them didn’t exist.
And Nettie— well, she couldn’t stop the thought that whispered through her chest: if this were any other guy, this moment could almost feel like a date.
But this was Tate Cassidy.
Gina’s brother.
The man she swore she wouldn’t fall for. The man wrapped in snark, solitude, caustic comments, and with an attitude like armor. A man who kept the world at arm’s length—and maybe himself too.
It seemed lonely.
They stopped at his motorcycle, the metal gleaming under the floodlight. Nettie eyed it warily, her nerves sparking allover again. The Ducati shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights, its paint so black and glossy it almost looked wet, like oil stretched over steel. She was fairly certain the thing cost more than her entire yearly salary, maybe more than two years, and it hummed with a quiet promise of danger even though the engine wasn’t on yet.
“I’m gonna slide on first and hold the bike,” Tate said, his voice brusque as always. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, like the machine demanded his complete attention. “Just hike your leg over and then sit down. There are footrests so you don’t burn your legs on the muffler.”
