“You bought me a bike?” My voice pitches higher than I’d like, drawing the waitress’s attention. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t accept that.”
He drags his half-eaten plate of food in front of him and casually drags a fry through the ketchup before answering.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s only what? Twenty grand? Twenty-two tops.”
I gape at him, stunned into silence.
Twenty grand?
That’s not a big deal?!?!
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head and pull away to stare at him. “I can’t?—”
“Yeah, you can. How will we ride together if you don’t have a bike?”
His tone is firm but not pushy. His dark eyes lock on mine with the unwavering confidence that has always infuriated and fascinated me.
“I mean, when you’re not backpacking. I want to go on long rides, grab a cabin in the woods, and repeat Sunday. I want every weekend to be Sunday, Izzy. Months of Sundays, aside from that big blow-up, you get what I’m saying.”
I’m so flabbergasted by how big and expensive this gift is that I just can’t get my mind around him dropping that kind of money on me.
“Diego . . . I’ll pay you back. In increments and?—”
“No, Isabella. This is my gift to you. I want to do it. I was there when you wrecked yours. I want to be the one to make this right. You’ll have to give up control on this because I’m not compromising.”
“But it’s twenty thousand dollars. Twenty, like what comes after nineteen! That’s more than?—”
“Remember that first day you accused me of wasting my parents’ money by not taking your class seriously? Well, you’re right. They are loaded. Have way more money than they need and I need, combined. But I have my own money, racing money, and I have this guy who manages it, grows it, and all that Wall Street shit. Trust me, Izzy. It’s not that much. It’s half a month of earnings.”
My brain can’t compute the casual way he brushes off twenty grand like it’s pocket change. Meanwhile, I’m still debating if I should splurge on the good coffee or stick to my budget-friendly instant stuff.
He sees the hesitation written all over my face and leans in slightly.
“Izzy, let me do this for you. No strings. No expectations. Just let me.”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head.
“It’s not about strings. It’s about . . . you don’t just buy people motorcycles.”
His lips curve into a smirk, and damn it, he knows he’s winning.
“You do when you have more money than sense. And when you want to ride every weekend with a certain stubborn woman who refuses to admit she wants the same thing.”
I glare at him, but it’s weak at best. Because he’s right. I do want that. The long rides. The endless Sundays. The freedom I haven’t felt since my old bike was totaled.
Still, I hesitate.
“What if something happens to it? What if I wreck it again?”
His smirk fades, replaced by something steadier, more serious.
“Then we’ll fix it. Or replace it. It’s just a bike, Izzy. What matters is that you’re on the road with me, where you belong.”
The sincerity in his voice melts the last of my resistance, and I sigh, dropping my gaze to the table. He jostles me back into the side of his body, taking another bite of his alleged rank burger.
My mind spits out visions of us riding through the fall foliage and open roads, enjoying the trip and each other.
It’s everything.
