“I promise.” She studies the jacket, then looks up with challenge in her eyes. “You don’t wear one.”
“I’m fine.”
“You should. And a helmet.”
I almost make a crack about her becoming a nagging wife, but the truth is, it’s nice. Having someone who gives a damn if I come home in one piece.
“I’ll think about it.”
She seems satisfied.
For the next hour, I walk her through everything. How to move the bike herself—I don’t help, because she needs to know she cando it alone. The throttle, the clutch, the brake. She already drives manual, so shifting makes sense. I explain the gear lever, the way to lean into turns instead of yanking the bars.
But there’s only so much talking you can do.
I help her with the helmet and watch her mount the bike for the first time. She’s practically vibrating, all that sunshine energy focused on the machine between her thighs.
She starts the engine, puts it in first, turns the throttle?—
And immediately lays it down.
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes as I help her stand it back up.
“Happens all the time. Easy on the throttle. You’ll find your balance.”
She does better the second attempt. Loses it trying to leave the driveway. Third time, she makes it farther before yanking the handlebars on a turn instead of leaning into it.
But she learns. Fast.
By the time we call it, she’s ridden around the block alone.
The smile on her face when she pulls back into the garage is huge. Pure joy. Unguarded. Like for one moment, she forgot to be afraid of anything.
“I love it.” She kills the engine and swings off, taking my hand. Her fingers squeeze mine. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Not just for the bike.” Her voice softens. “The lessons. The protection. Teaching me to ride instead of telling me it’s too dangerous.” She squeezes my hand. “I know you said violence is all you’re good for. You were wrong.”
No one’s ever said anything like that to me. I pull her in and kiss her because I don’t have words that measure up.
When I pull back, she’s watching me with those big brown eyes. And I know.
I’m not letting her go.
28
SIERRA
Six womenin a bridal boutique is a lot. Six opinionated women who all love me and have conflicting ideas about what I should wear? I’m going to need more champagne.
We sweep through the door of the boutique like a small hurricane. My mom, Harper, Sarah, Audrey, and Matteo’s mom, all talking over each other about parking and whether we should have eaten first or if anyone remembered to feed the meter. I’m somewhere in the middle of it all, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I feel.
The shop is small and upscale, with soft lighting and crystal chandeliers. The kind of place where everything is displayed like art and there are no visible price tags, which means I probably can’t afford to breathe in here, let alone buy something.
A woman materializes in front of us before we’ve taken three steps. Black blazer, long skirt, statement earrings that look like they weigh more than my head. She’s got to be in her sixties, but she moves like time is money, sweeping toward me andthreading her arm through mine like we’ve known each other for years.
“Welcome, welcome! You must be Sierra.” Her smile is so polished I can almost see my reflection in it. “I’m Celeste, the owner. I cannot wait to help you find the dress of your dreams.”
