He doesn’t look up from the bike. “Doesn’t sound small to me.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.
Five words, and he didn’t laugh or tell me to think bigger or ask how I planned to make money. He just believed me.
“It was freeing,” I continue. “Dropping out. Choosing my own path. I know I’ve never lived an oppressed life, but there was pressure to do things the right way. College. Career. Successful husband. Kids.” I laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “Nothing wrong with any of that. But I accepted those expectations without figuring out who I wanted to be first.”
“So you started. Figuring out who you are.”
“So I started.” I hold out my arm, showing him my sleeve. Flowers and vines and butterflies, winding from shoulder to wrist.
Matteo looks over at me. His gaze travels from my wrist to my shoulder, unhurried, and my skin prickles under the attention.
“I got tattoos. Volunteered. Got my nose pierced. Traveled. Got lost.” I lower my arm, suddenly self-conscious. “Amsterdam was my favorite. I went with my best friend Annika, and she ended up staying because she met the love of her life.”
“You followed your heart.”
“And it freaked my parents out a bit.” I drop my arm. “But I wasn’t going to stop. I didn’t have it all together, but I loved my life. Until Viktor.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens.
“You’re right about me following my heart,” I continue. “I never regretted it until him. Ever since he turned on me, I’ve questioned everything. My judgment. My instincts. Everything I thought I knew about reading people.”
His grip tightens on the wrench. Just for a second. Then he’s back to work, but I saw it.
“I even stopped wanting things,” I continue, my voice smaller now. “What’s the point of reaching for something if you can’t trust yourself to know what’s good for you?”
“It seems to me,” Matteo says slowly, “that maybe you’re letting yourself want things again.”
I stare at him.
He’s right. After just a few days of knowing Matteo, here I am, excited about a motorcycle. Making plans. Wanting things again.
He goes back to working on the bike, and I scoot my bucket closer. Now that we’ve talked, I feel braver. I ask questions about what he’s doing. He shows me how to check spark plugs. Explains pistons and cylinders. Compression and exhaust.
I nod along, not understanding half of it, but that’s not really the point. The point is his voice, gravelly and rough and surprisingly patient. The point is his hands, moving with careful precision. The point is the way his passion for this work makes him seem softer.
“See this?” He points to a chain wrapped around the rear sprocket. “You want to keep these well-lubricated. Friction wears them down.”
Lubricated. Friction.
Heat floods my face.
I tell myself it’s not sexual. It’s just mechanics. But my brain doesn’t care. Suddenly, all I can think about is his hands on my skin, the friction of his body against mine, the way he’d feel inside me?—
I’m so tired of fighting this.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and cup his face in my hands.
His eyes widen. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen. Completely still.
Then I kiss him.
It’s heat and hunger and desperation. My lips move against his, and for one terrible second, I think I’ve made a mistake. I think he’s going to push me away.
Then his arms wrap around me, and he hauls me against his chest so hard it knocks the breath out of me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth when I gasp. His hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. My thighs clench. Every nerve ending in my body is lit up and aching.
I rake my fingers through his short hair and press closer. Closer. A whimper escapes me that I’d be embarrassed about if I could think straight.
