I laugh. "Please. If it wasn’t for meetings, I’d never even see you and I would be happy about it. You think I’d hang out with someone like you willingly?"
He walks toward me, half-buttoning his black shirt, eyes on mine. "Someone like me?"
"Loud. Cocky. Half-naked eighty percent of the time. And definitely not my type."
"Oh, you’ve got a type now?"
"Yeah. People who don’t piss me off on sight."
He’s standing in front of me, taller by just enough to make it annoying. "You’re so full of shit, Ravioli," he says, grinning.
"You’d ride me if I let you."
I shove his shoulder, pissed. "In your dreams, Gio."
I stare at him for half a second too long before rolling my eyes. "Put on your goddamn boots. I’m not showing up with you barefoot."
"Yes, sir," he mutters, smirking.
Finally.
We step out of his house. I really thought we were gonna die in there. His bike sits there like a fucking beast, and of course, he looks at me like this is the moment I’ll lose my shit.
"You remember how to hold on?" he asks, tossing me the helmet.
"I remember how to strangle you with this strap."
He snatches it back before I can put it on, steps into my space again.
"Let me."
His fingers brush my neck, a little too long on the buckle.
"There," he murmurs. "Wouldn’t want you falling off and dying. Not before I ruin your night properly."
"You’ve already ruined it," I snap. He laughs and gets on the bike. I hesitate, then climb on, my hands resting awkwardly before I wrap them around his waist.
His voice comes back over his shoulder.
"Try not to get a boner, angel."
"Drive the damn bike, Gio!"
Jesus Christ.
Has this man ever driven like a normal human being in his entire life? We’ve been on the bike for maybe thirty seconds and he’s already acting like we’re competing for a world title in ‘who can kill their passenger fastest’.
Someone please tell him this is a casual ride, not the fucking MotoGP. I have no choice. If I don’t hold onto him, I’m going to fly off this bike, die instantly, and haunt him forever.
My arms tighten around his waist on reflex. I bury my face against his shoulder blade for a second just so the air doesn’t rip my skin off.
"Slow the hell down," I shout over the wind. He just laughs. Typical.
Blue lights.
My stomach drops as a police car pulls out from the side and signals for us to stop.
"You’ve gotta be kidding me," I mutter.
