“You’re getting carried away.” She laughs as I bounce her in my arms.
“I borrowed something from Kenna.” I pick up a bag I’d left sitting on the table and hand it to her. “I’m gonna miss ye wearing that tight skirt because it outlines your arse so nicely, but go put these on, aye?”
She glances in the bag. “Is there a reason, then?”
Running my hand lightly up her throat, I squeeze, just a bit. “There’s always a reason, baby.”
Arabella…
I’ve put on my borrowed jeans and boots, thank god Kenna is just a shoe size smaller than mine, or these boots would hurt.
Logan’s pulling me through the back of the house and into the garage, where there’s a long row of beautiful cars, like there is in our garage at home. A Ferrari 250 GTO, cherry red. A Bugatti. An Aston Martin in roadster green. Several black SUVs, which still makes me laugh. Then we round the corner into another section and there it is.
A motorcycle.
Not just a motorcycle. “An IndianChallenger.”I sigh rapturously. “Can I touch it?”
“Feck, this conversation is already making me hard,” he groans. “How do ye know about motorcycles?”
“My oldest brother, Finn. He was a fanatic, ye know how most boys have posters of topless girls in their room? He plastered his room with motorcycle pictures. He liked the Harley-Davidson bikes, but his one true love is the Indian. I was forced to hear more than any one human should know about every Indian brand on the market.”
“Interesting.” Logan leans against the bike, watching me. “So, if I were to say…” His voice drops to a porn star worthy growl, “The PowerPlus 112 delivers 126 horsepower, liquid-cooled, 60-degree V-twin engine with overhead camshafts, how would that make ye feel?”
Drawing in a shaky breath, I ask, “Can ye say overhead camshaft again?”
He laughs boisterously, taking my hand. “Climb on.”
“Logan, no! Dinnae this belong to your Da?”
“It does,” he lightly bites my neck. “That’s why taking it is gonna be so much fun.”
“Isn’t that actually called stealing?” I look longingly at the bike. It’s a matte black and gleams seductively under the low light in this corner of the garage.
“Borrowing, baby. We’re just borrowing it.” He puts a helmet on me, fastens it under my chin before lifting me lightly onto the seat and swings a leg over, stabilizing the bike and pulling me flush against his back. “Hang on.”
The engine’s roar is so loud that it vibrates through my bones and for once, I’m grateful the helmet masks some of the noise. Logan lets out a genuinely unhinged laugh and revs the engine as we shoot out of the garage, tearing down the long driveway. The guards get the big iron gate open just in time and we slide through the narrow gap and we’re gone, the mansion just a scatter of lights behind us.
Somehow, everything conspires to make my husband even sexier, which I dinnae think was possible; his competent hands handling the throttle, the thick thighs that mine are gripping desperately, the rumble of the engine under me, acting like the world’s most intimidating vibrator.
Everything tears past us in ribbons of light, blares of neon and pools of shadow as we race along the M8 Motorway. Logan finally slows, turning into Port Glasgow. It’s mostly shipyards and old docks, but he pulls into a little beach, surrounded by trees.
With a flourish, my husband pulls out two bottles of Tennent’s Lager from the saddlebags and we tap the bottles together. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a beer, and it’s surprisingly crisp and tasty going down.
“The last time we did this, we ended up getting married,” I warn. We’ve finished the first bottle and he’s already presenting me with another.
“And it was the best Drunk Logic I’ve ever had,” he says, dropping a careless kiss on my shoulder. “The last time I drank a Tennent’s was when I stole a cooler full of them from Kai. He was trying to get Luna to warm up to him after he dragged her down to the Registrar’s office for a quickie wedding.” His smile is fond, reminiscing about the day. “I was there as a witness and possibly to catch Luna if she tried to bolt.”
“That’s sounding mighty familiar, then,” I say dryly.
“So, your brother Finn. Which Indian motorcycle did he end up with?”
“Ach, well. He dinnae get one.” I’m peeling the label off the bottle, looking out on the water. “He got a girl pregnant - Maureen, nice lass - and that was the end of his motorcycle dreams. Their bairn is adorable, Freddie’s his name, he’s five now.”
“Do ye see him much?”
“Once at his christening, I went home for a quick visit. My family is more of a ‘phone call once a year on Christmas’ sort.” I’m looking down at the bottle because I dinnae want to see his eyes. To see if there’s pity there. “Your family is so close, it’s lovely. Mine is… I’m a bit of a disappointment to my folks. There was a lot of finger-pointing when I got my diagnosis. ‘It must have come from your side, Kent! Oh, no, Moria, the weak genes are all from your people.’” I give a little laugh because it’s better to think it’s funny than really sad and terrible.
“So ye did all this on your own, then? Leaving Linlithgow, making your own way through Uni and becoming a teacher?” His voice is warm and deep, I wish I could settle into it like a blanket and wrap it around me.
