“Hi,” I said, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “What are you doing here? I thought you had your dad’s chemo appointment.”
“All done. He’s home and resting comfortably. Letti’s on Dad watch,” he said.
I frowned. “Okay.”
“Did you forget I was taking you on a field trip?”
I smiled. “No, but I thought I was meeting you at the cabin. Much later. Like, way after you took your dad to his appointment.”
“Figured we’d go for a little ride.”
“My car—”
“Is back at the cabin,” he interrupted.
“What?”
“Sierra loaned me your spare key. I had Aero move it, then take the key back to Sierra.”
“Seriously?”
He kissed me again. “Yep. Sierra gave Aero your leather jacket and I’ve got an extra helmet. Come on, we’ll throw your shit in the saddlebags.”
“Well, you seem to have thought of everything.”
He chuckled. “Boy Scouts.”
“You were a Boy Scout?”
“Hell, yeah, I was,” he said, taking my books from me and handing me my jacket and helmet. “Eagle Scout, baby.”
I chuckled. “Well, color me impressed.”
He grinned and threw his leg over his bike, waiting for me to climb on behind him. I tightened the strap on my helmet, then slid on and wrapped my arms tight around his waist. We took off and I snuggled close to him, letting the vibration of the bike soothe me.
God, I loved being on the back of a bike, and there was something even more special about being on the back of my man’s bike. I was sorely disappointed when we pulled through a ten-foot barbed wire fence and drove up to a huge warehouse at the edge of Colorado Springs.
We climbed off the bike and I removed my helmet and jacket, handing them to Orion after he’d fished my purse out of one of the saddlebags.
He grinned, taking my hand. “This is one of our grow centers.”
“Oh, seriously?”
“Yep. Welcome to the house of Frankenflower.”
“Frankenflower?”
“Our growers are constantly perfecting new hybrid strains and I can never keep up with all of the names, so I just call them our Frankenflowers.”
I chuckled. “Does that make you Dr. Frankenstone?”
He dropped his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s good. I guess that would make Chan Igor.”
“Who’s that?”
“Paul Chandler. Our lead horticulturist. Come on. I think you need a visual demonstration on how all of this works.”
He led me into the building and we were met with all manner of fancy security. He used a key card to get through the front door, then had to use the card again to get through the foyer doors. “Everything in here is bullet proof,” he explained.
