Junie is the first person I’ve known with Down Syndrome, and I’ll admit I was nervous at first. I didn’t know what to say or how to act.
But five seconds in Junie’s company made it clear why Lisa adores her. It’s not a pitying “let’s be nice to the developmentally disabled person” kind of affection, either. Junie’s zest for life is contagious, and her enthusiasm for the motorcycle ride has me grinning like an overgrown kid on a Ducati.
I’ve had plenty of women on the back of my bike, but none have made me laugh like Junie.
“Woohoo!” she shouts. “Hey, Lisa! Take a picture, okay?”
Lisa obeys, snapping furiously. I take another lap through the parking lot of the warehouse, slowing down so Lisa can get a good shot of her sister-in-law.
“Here we are,” I say as I ease to a stop near the mailboxes. I park the bike and help Junie off as Lisa hustles over to assist with the helmet.
“How’d you like it?” I ask.
“It was awesome!” Junie beams and gives me a hug so fierce, I stagger with the force of it. I hug back and smile at Lisa over Junie’s shoulder.
“Think you’re ready to join a motorcycle gang now?” I ask.
Junie steps back and seems to mull it over, then shakes her head. “Maybe not yet. You should probably take me for more rides so I get practice.”
“I like how you think.”
Lisa smiles and hands me the helmet, then turns back to Junie. “You ready for our lunch date?”
“Yeah. Can I wash my hands first?”
“Sure thing,” Lisa says. “I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”
As Lisa leads her to it, I try not to think illicit thoughts about the last time I was in that bathroom with Lisa. It’s been almost a week, and I haven’t stopped replaying the scene. Haven’t stopped feeling my fingers in her hair or remembering the way water sluiced off her bare shoulders as I washed her back.
See? It’s not just about the sex.
The hell it isn’t. And it damn sure needs to stay that way.
Lisa emerges from the workshop with sunlight sparking off her blond hair and breasts rounding out the front of that yellow dress, and it’s all I can do not to drool as she approaches.
“When can I see you next?” I blurt before I have a chance to think of something cooler to say.
She smiles and tucks her hair behind one ear, giving me a view of a tender swath of neck I’d like to be kissing. “I wasn’t sure we were doing that,” she says.
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs and glances away, her gaze fitting over the bike, the mailboxes—anything but me. “Making dates. Acting like we’re in a relationship or something. We both said we didn’t want that.”
I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question, but I nod anyway. “Of course.”
“So, we’re still on the same page?”
“Definitely.”
“Excellent.”
She sounds so relieved that it’s hard not to take it personally. But her words underscore exactly what we both want, so there’s no fucking reason it should bother me. “The no strings thing is great,” I assure her, or maybe I’m assuring myself. “Glad it’s working out.”
And it’s true. Come on, the last thing I need is to date someone seriously. Especially with someone whose idea of a date involves a six-course meal or tickets to some Shakespeare play or?—
“The damn opera.”
“What?” I yank my attention back to Lisa, surprised to see she’s pulled out her phone and is studying the screen with a frown.
