It doesn’t come.
Instead, a deep, rumbling laugh arises from the other side of the motorcycle. I think it’s safe to assume Bike Boy hasn’t met his demise, unlike my pride. I crack an eyelid to find the man and his friend holding the bike up.
Together, they heave the bike, and I begin the arduous process of climbing to my feet in a tiny skirt and tall heels. Spoiler alert—it’s not cute.
I ignore the pain in my shoulder and the throbbing of my forehead. A quick swipe tells me there’s no goose egg, but the spot has probably turned as bright red as my cheeks.
Speaking of cheeks, I sense a line of goosebumps across the lower half of my butt, letting me know that my skirt indeed has ridden up.
Because of course it has.
Never in my life have I experienced mortification to this degree. Now that it’s happening, it’s like plunging into an ice bath. I canfeelthe burning shame, but the rest of me is in shock. Numb. I decide to lean into that feeling.
So, I wiggle the hem of my miniskirt down and summon cool confidence like the boss chick I am. I strut around the motorcycle toward the man.
“Get back on the bike,” I say. “We’re getting out of here.”
One black eyebrow shoots behind a wavy lock of hair. He sends a pointed look to his buddy. They both seem to be in their early twenties, like me. Bike Boy’s bristled jaw could cut glass, and he grins at me like I hold the same level of intrigue to him.
“We’re not gonna talk aboutthatwhole thing?” He spirals a pointed finger in the direction of my utter humiliation. “You okay? That seemed like it hurt.” The man stilts an arm atop the bike seat, speaking in a tone so rumbly I can practically feel the vibrations.
“I’mfine,” I snap, but then I force my expression into something more coy. I don’t know why I’m talking like this. Why I’m acting like this? Kate Chen may be many things, but flustered isnotone of them.
“Pretend you didn’t see anything.” My fingers skim the hem of my miniskirt.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His seductive smile tilts as he picks up on my little game.
“Charming,” I say dryly. “Now let’s get out of here.”
His startling green eyes blow a tad wider. “You don’t know me. Pretty girls like you should be more careful. Especially clumsy ones. To be fair, itdidseem hard to walk in those heels while undressing me with your eyes.”
My mouth drops in protest. “I thought you agreed you didn’t see anything.”
“I didn’t.”
His gaze flicking to my skirt and back say otherwise, but I’m set on ignoring it.
“Well? What’s the hold up?” I tap my toes in a rhythm of impatience. Bike Boy is the sexiest distraction I’ve happened upon in a while, and I’m nothing if not in need of averytall distraction. He’s gotta be somewhere close to six-foot-four.
He shrugs, grin undaunted. “You should probably get to know someone before taking off on their motorcycle,love.”
I snort at the nickname. “Okay,bikeboy.What do I need to know about you?”
“My name, for starters. But I think that’s common sense?” Bike Boy directs this question to his shorter, brown-haired friend. He nods emphatically, seeming pleased to be involved.
“It’s Brandon Roberts, by the way.”
While he’s speaking, I sneak a brush across my hairline to see if it’s spurting a delayed goose egg. It isn’t, but manalive, did that hurt. Who knew handlebars were made of baseball bats?
Brandon tracks the movement across my forehead. “Yousureyou’re okay?”
“Better than ever,Brandon Roberts,” I say sweetly. “Now quit stalling and get back on the bike.” I step beside it, readying to swing my leg when he stops me.
“Not done. Fall’s my favorite season, I love the color red,” he says with a flick of his eyes to my black skirt, “and I hate pancakes. So don’t bother bringing me breakfast in bed.”
I puff out a laugh even as the image elicits a heated shiver down my spine.
“Finished now?”
