She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her working through implications. Getting on the back of my bike means more than transportation. Means accepting my lead in how we approach this. Means allowing herself to be seen as connected to me rather than investigating me.
Means crossing a line she can't uncross.
"Fine, I’ll ride with you" she says. “But I’ll leave my car at your shop."
"Works for me."
At my bike I pull the spare helmet from my saddlebag and hold it out. "Ever been on a bike before?"
"Once. College boyfriend thought it was romantic." Her mouth curves slightly, but there's wariness underneath. "It was terrifying."
"This won't be romantic." I swing onto the bike and wait. "But it'll probably still be terrifying."
Mira hesitates before climbing on behind me. Her hands rest lightly on my sides, uncertain. I reach back and grab her wrists, pulling her arms tight around my waist, positioning her the way she needs to be.
"Hold on tight," I tell her. "Lean when I lean. Fight the movement, and you'll throw us both off balance."
"Got it." Her arms tighten, and I feel her chest press against my back.
The Harley rumbles to life. I give her a moment to adjust before pulling out onto the street. The weight and balance shifts with her added presence, but I compensate automatically.
We head north toward Pete's storage facility. Mira's grip tightens as I accelerate, her body rigid at first, fighting the bike's movement. I take a curve harder than necessary, forcing her to lean or fall, and she gasps but leans into it.
Learning fast.
By the time we hit the main road, she's moving with the bike instead of against it. Her thighs press against mine, chest against my back, arms locked around my waist. Every shift brings her closer, every curve makes her hold tighter.
Wind rushes past, carrying ocean salt and exhaust. I feel her breath against my neck when I lean forward into acceleration, feel the tension in her muscles as she adjusts to speed.
Mira’s not hesitating anymore. She’s moving with me like she's starting to understand how this works.
And that awareness—her body pressed against mine, her trust in my ability to keep her safe despite everything between us—does something I don't want to examine too closely. Something that goes beyond tactical assessment of whether she's competent or useful.
Something dangerous.
Because Mira Vaughn is still investigating my brothers for fraud. Still convinced we might be criminals. And getting involved with someone who thinks you're guilty is the kind of stupid that gets people hurt.
But feeling her hold tighter as I take another curve, feeling her body move in sync with mine, I can't quite convince myself to care about smart decisions.
5
MIRA
My heartbeat has nothing to do with fear of motorcycles.
The Harley rumbles beneath us as Shaw leans into another curve, and I move with him automatically, body pressed against his back, thighs bracketing his hips, arms locked around his waist. Wind tears at the borrowed helmet, cool air rushing past as the Pacific coastline blurs by. The bike tilts into the turn, and my grip tightens instinctively. Shaw's hand covers mine briefly where they're clasped at his waist—steadying, possessive—before returning to the handlebars.
This should terrify me. The speed, the exposure, the complete trust required to let someone else control my safety while balanced on two wheels. Instead, all I can focus on is the solid warmth of Shaw's body against mine. The controlled power in how he handles the bike. The way his muscles shift under my hands with every adjustment to throttle and balance.
Professional distance is impossible when you're wrapped around someone on a motorcycle. When your chest presses against their back with every breath, when your thighs align with theirs, when every part of you is in contact with every part of them.
And some reckless part of me doesn't want distance anyway.
Shaw makes a turn I'm not expecting, veering off the main road onto a smaller route climbing into the hills. This isn't the way to Pete's storage facility—I studied the town map last night, memorized streets and landmarks. We're heading away from the commercial district, toward residential areas sprawling across the hillside.
Where the hell is he taking me?
The road narrows, winding through stands of evergreen and madrone. Shaw slows as we climb, and I loosen my grip slightly. His hand comes down to rest on my knee—not steadying this time. Deliberate. His palm warm through my jeans before returning to the handlebars.
