Swallowing, Nettie tried not to stare at him as Tate swung one long leg smoothly over the seat with a practiced grace. He made it look effortless, as if the sleek machine bent itself to his will. His hoodie and sweatpants seemed comically casual compared to the feral gleam of the Ducati, but on him—on Tate—somehow it fit. He turned then, just enough for his dark eyes to meet hers, lifting one eyebrow as though silently challenging her.
“Today?”
“Oh yes, of course,” she said too quickly, stumbling over her own tongue. Her hands twisted nervously at her sides. “Don’t watch me, this isn’t going to be graceful or dignified,” she warned, resisting the magnetic pull of his gaze. “I need your shoulder too, so don’t make this weird.”
And heaven help her, he chuckled.
That sound—low and rough—rolled over her skin, sparking something sharp and warm in her chest. She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and solid beneath her palm, and sucked in a deep breath. Then, with all the determination of someone climbing a mountain face without gear, she lifted her leg, balanced awkwardly, and swung her sneaker onto theseat. The bike shifted, tilting deliberately toward her as Tate compensated, and she nearly lost her nerve.
But then—miraculously—she was on. Slumping gracelessly, scooting and fumbling like a kid on the world’s most intimidating pony, she managed to plant herself behind him. There was space between them, about six inches, and she clung to that tiny buffer like her dignity depended on it.
“Put your foot on each of those pegs,” he ordered gruffly, pushing his black helmet toward her without ceremony. “Put this on.”
She blinked, fumbling with the surprisingly heavy helmet. “What about you?”
“Trust me, if I lay this bike down on the concrete—you’re going to want a helmet.”
“Again—what about you?” she stressed, tugging it on and noting the visor was still up, making her feel both exposed and cocooned.
“You need it,” he said simply. “I’ll get a second one.”
Her eyes narrowed behind the visor. “Who else do you take riding?”
His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Are you ready yet?” he bit out, looking over his shoulder instead of answering, which only made her bristle more.
She swatted him on the shoulder. “Don’t bite my head off. If you don’t want to do this, then you could have just?—”
And then the world exploded with sound as he started the engine. Her voice was swallowed whole by the roar, the growl reverberating through her bones. He revved it once, deliberately, and flicked another look over his shoulder—cutting her off without saying a word.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
He rolled his eyes.
“Scoot up against me,” he ordered, voice raised over the rumble. “And hang on.”
“Um, no.”
“Nettie…”
“Tate, we… we’re,” she stammered, heat climbing her cheeks even as she fought it down. “You and I—we’re not snuggly people.”
“We’re not snuggling,” he chuckled again, and the sound sent another sharp current through her. “It’s called ‘holding on so you don’t fly off the back’ when I drive.”
“But you said you’d go slow.”
“It doesn’t take much when you are a passenger…”
“Oh.”
“Yup. Scoot forward,” he said, patient but firm.
She obeyed, even though it meant the solid line of his back pressed firmly against her chest, his hips bracketed by her thighs. The scents—his soap, his shampoo, the exhaust and motor oil mixed with something warm she could never quite name—wrapped around her, and the absurd comfort of it made her heart twist.
Again, so weird.
Weird. Weird. Weird.
Then he reached back, catching her hand and tugging it around his waist. The contact jolted her, and she yanked back with a startled noise.
