“Just do me a favor—okay?” Shannon added.
“You aren’t coming in?”
“No. I’ve got a date…”
“Felix?”
“Nope. A blind date with a guy named Dominic.”
“What happened to Felix?”
“He tripped.”
Nettie blinked. “Is he okay?”
“Oh yes,” Shannon said with a shrug, tossing her hair like the whole thing was nothing. “He tripped and fell into another woman’s bed. He says it’s my fault because I wouldn’t put out.I told him it was his fault because he’s a skanky psychotic nightmare wrapped in a man’s body.”
Nettie managed the ghost of a smile—until she noticed Shannon’s fade.
“What’s wrong?” Nettie asked, unease coiling in her stomach. A second later, she heard it too. A low, familiar sound in the distance.
“It’s my signal to leave,” Shannon said, hugging her quickly and tight. “Listen to what he’snotsaying. Sometimes that speaks more clearly than words. Okay?”
Panic sparked in Nettie’s chest. “Don’t leave me.”
“I think Tate would request otherwise,” Shannon teased lightly.
Her words proved true as a motorcycle rolled up the driveway, the low rumble vibrating through the ground. Tate. His helmet visor glinted in the porch light as he flipped it up, his expression unreadable. He looked away, unstrapping something from the back seat.
Shannon wiggled her fingers in farewell and headed for her car, leaving Nettie standing in the doorway as if rooted there.
“Hello,” Nettie said warily. Her voice was small, defensive. “I don’t want to talk yet…”
“Perfect,” Tate replied, his tone steady. He turned, holding up a hot pink motorcycle helmet that sparkled under the porch light. “You’ve had a week of ‘not talking’ so let’s ‘not talk’ for a while longer.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Is that for me?”
He raised the helmet beside his head, his mouth twitching at the corner. “Which looks better?”
She couldn’t stop the smile that broke through, tentative but real. “Give me a moment.”
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”
Inside, Nettie set her purse down with shaky hands. She pulled a sweatshirt over her head and a jacket—last time the cold had seeped into her bones—and stuffed her phone, license, and keys into the pockets. She hesitated for only a second before locking the door and stepping back outside.
Tate was still astride the bike, waiting.
“Come on,” he invited simply.
“I’m still mad,” she warned, her chin tilting stubbornly.
“I know,” he answered without flinching. “You ignored me for a week.”
“I’m not ready to face you, and we’re not talking yet.”
“Sure thing. You make the rules,” He replied, handing her the helmet with calm patience.
She slid it on, tightened the strap, and climbed onto the bike. It was easier this time, her body less uncertain, more familiar with the way the seat molded to her and the solid strength of him in front of her. Her sneakers found the footrests, her hands gripped his shoulders before slipping around his middle.
