I pull the dress out now, and grin.
Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?I text Axe.
Three guesses.
Haggis eating contest? Kilt twirls on TikTok? Master the bagpipes in ten minutes?
Nah, dentist appointment. I’ll bet you’ll be a right bonny lass in a bib.
Automatically, I cover my mouth with my hand. I’m 75 percent sure he’s joking, but wait—could there actually be something wrong with my teeth? I thought I’d done all the SynthoTech workups already—the scans, the physical exams, all that stuff. I was super stressed about it, too. I mean, how does someone with my history of medical drama pass a basic physical?
I kept telling myself I was in remission, my allergies wouldn’t be a deal-breaker, and my diabetes was under control. But even after I passed, I kept waiting for a call from the doctor telling me that there had been some mistake.
Okay, sure, I text, trying to keep it light.I’ll go floss again!
Ha just windin’ you up. No dentist date. You’ve got lovely gnashers.
Not funny
Hey, could have said proctologist…
!!!!
Sorry. I’ve never been much of a gentleman
No kidding. Fucking Axe. I can just hear him laughing that low, teasing chuckle, so delighted about his childish joke. I stop texting and toss my phone on the bed. Axe got one thing right—he’s no gentleman, despite the fact that he did rescue me from Freddy Krueger and has a generous health insurance policy. Men who look like Vikings and talk like they spent a childhood shearing sheep in the Scottish Highlands and say whatever comes to their minds, no matter how insulting—they aren’t gentlemen. Also, he is too big, too strong, too likely to pin a woman against the wall as he grinds into her to be considered a gentleman.
Not that I’ve ever imagined him pinning me against a wall.
Nope. Never. Not even once.
When my phone buzzes again, Axe still hasn’t told me where we’re going. Just a message:black car, five minutes. I grab a bag and a wrap, and slip on a pair of cute, comfy sneakers. Then I take them off again. This dress deserves heels. I only own one pair, but they are sky-high and a gorgeous snakeskin. Hopefully wherever we’re going doesn’t require any actual walking.
The car arrives promptly. I climb into the cavernous leather back seat—no Axe, just a thin-lipped driver. In no time we’re zipping down the highway outside Shelton to the more rural Maplehill, where we now wind along country lanes. I’ve never been here—not with my dust and pollen allergies—and my stomach tightens as I grip the seat. I’m going to fuck up this first date in fiveminutes when I start sneezing like a trombone. There won’t be enough tissues for what I will unleash. My anxiety feels like a runaway train. How did I ever think I could pull off being the ideal girlfriend when I can barely leave the house without a careful plan?
By the time the car stops in front of this ancient covered bridge, I’m practically vibrating with nerves—probably because the sign readsHistorically Protected Bridge. No Cars Allowed. The driver opens my door, and right on cue, a man in a leather jacket pulls up on a motorcycle.
It’s so perfectly timed, there’s got to be some GPS sorcery involved.
Even before he yanks off his helmet, I know it’s Axe. Broad shoulders, leather gloves, thick thighs. How many leather jackets does this guy own? This one’s different from the other day—softer, dressier, more “man about town” than Hells Angel. Seriously, someone this annoying shouldn’t be allowed to look so hot on a motorcycle.
“I got it from here,” Axe says to the driver. To me, he says, “A hop across the bridge to supper, if you don’t mind jumping on the back.”
“Umm…” My heart is skittering. The bike is massive and loud, and I’ve had enough near-death experiences for one lifetime. Then again, Axe doesn’t seem like the type to crash. Plus, I wouldn’t mind feeling that smooth leather against my skin. In this dress and Axe’s getup, we’d look like a perfume ad.
“Ever ridden on the back of a bike before?” he asks.
“Yes, a couple of times,” I lie, trying to subtly dry my sweaty hands on my dress before climbing on. Axe hands me a helmet and helps me buckle it under my chin. My hair—already wild on a good day—is going to be a disaster after this. When his fingers brush my neck, I feel a jolt of electricity. Must be static.
Axe suddenly frowns. “You’re shivering. Didn’t think about it being this cold,” he says, shrugging off his leather jacket and draping it over my shoulders. He’s wearing an untucked fitted white button-down shirt and gray jeans, both of which are straining against his muscles. He runs a hugely successful company—when does he have time to go to the gym this much? “Here, take this.”
“Thanks,” I say. The jacket is warm from his body, and it smells like him—clean, spicy, with a hint of something dangerous and addictive. My cheeks flame up instantly from how stupidly sexy this whole thing is.
“All right, now hop on, Ginger Snap,” he says. “Nice shoes. Very practical.” He winks, and I can’t help but laugh.
“They do the trick.” I try to look enigmatic, and use my high heel to jump onto the bike. I surprise myself with my coordination and swing my leg around, landing behind Axe. According to the employment paperwork I signed, my role here is to be the sort of universal date all men would want to have. I have no idea what that actually means in practice. The SynthoTech contract was very clear: be natural, be organic. Trying too hard to be perfect is just going to backfire.
I’m better off not trying at all and just being myself.
