Good. How’d you get my number?
Membership paperwork. Is that okay?
Yeah, a bit stalker-like, though. Wouldn’t you say?
My parole officer says texts are fine.
I laugh and lean back in my seat.
It’s when you show up at my office that we’ll have a real problem, right?
I already know where that is, remember?
Besides, it’s only a problem if you want me to go away.
A few seconds pass before another ping alerts me to another text.
Do you?
I let my defenses down and in a moment of weakness, or bravery depending on how you look at it, rather than a sarcastic come back, I go for honesty.
No. I don’t want you to go away.My finger hovers over the “send” button for a second, before I decide to go for it.
Good. Dinner then?
A rush of excitement catches me off guard. There’s something about being around Conner that challenges me, makes me feel alive, turns me on. But wanting to keep him on the edge of his seat, I wait a minute before responding.
Sure. When?
His response is immediate.
Now. I’m outside.
Falling off the wagon, huh? Should I let your PO know?
I’ve kept him informed. Come down.
Now.
Pushy much?
Please.
There, is that better?
Much.
I’ll be right down.
My heart hammers in my chest as I take the elevator down. I don’t know much about Conner, but, at least based on his impromptu visit, I know enough to expect the unexpected. Whether it be his concern for my injured shoulder, or his kindness in making sure I got home safely, it’s safe to say I want to know more.
When I step outside, the unexpected is exactly what I get. “A motorcycle?”
“A Harley, actually.” He smiles proudly, swinging his leg over the seat.
We’re in that odd stage. Unsure of how to greet one another, I step to his side and walk around the bike, pretending to inspect it, like I have any idea what I’m looking at. I might not know a single thing about bikes, but this one is definitely high-end, possibly custom made. It’s black and chrome with deep red flourishes as trim. The bodywork matches his helmet, which is tucked under his arm. We stand, facing one another, the bike between us. His leather jacket pulls tightly across his muscular chest and arms. Loose fitting, dark-wash jeans cover his thick legs. His dark brown hair is messily styled. I can’t deny the physical reaction I have whenever I see him. It’s impossible not to, especially when he looks like that.
Though, if I’m reading him right, the way his eyes are scanning over me indicate that he’s dealing with the same reaction.
