“It’s you,” she mumbles with a wince.
“Isabella?”
My brain spins faster than the wheels of my bike. The very woman I left to take care of her dad is out here on the open road, racing me with a certain death wish.
“What. The. Fuck?”
I cradle the back of her head in my gloved hand as I crouch over her. My gaze roams all over her face and body, looking for tears, cuts, and anything broken. Worry and confusion replace the adrenaline that once occupied the deep crevices of my being.
“Are you hurt anywhere? That was . . .”
I can’t even say how nasty it was.
Her bike shows how bad it was. Her leathers are scuffed, and her helmet is scratched up from sliding down the road, but I can’t see any apparent injuries. Her eyes are hazy but focused enough to find mine.
“I’m not sure.”
She attempts to sit up, but I press my free hand against her shoulder, keeping her still.
“I think I need to call 911.”
“No, it’s. . . I’m not hurt. Just . . .”
Her gloved hand grips my wrist, squeezing it and holding on. I give her a few seconds to gather her bearings, knowing we have to get out of the roadway before a vehicle comes barreling down on us.
“Isabella, that was a violent crash. From the look of your helmet, you hit your head. We need to get you examined.”
She licks her lips, her hand dropping from mine to push off the road in an attempt to sit up.
“I got you.”
Her expression is unreadable. Shock, pain, or something else. I squeeze her shoulder gently, my voice softer, and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The rest of her long hair is tied back in a ponytail and tucked into her leathers.
“What are you doing here, Diego?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing out here?” I shoot back, my frustration bubbling up despite myself. “I dropped you off at home to take care of your father. Not out here?—.”
Her eyes close briefly, and when they reopen, there’s a flicker of defiance.
“Riding.”
“Riding?” I repeat, incredulous. “That’s not riding. You were racing me! Me of all people! You just nearly killed yourself!”
I don’t hold back, letting her have the full force of my fury, worry, and sheer fright. No biker wants to lose a rider, not ever. Certainly not one he likes and wants to get with. Her gaze wavers, the defiance melting away.
“I needed to clear my head. After everything.”
“Shit, Isabella.”
I sit back on my heels, shaking my head in disbelief, but I can’t find the words to argue.
We’re alike.
Both need to get away from each other to think clearly. If that isn’t saying a shit ton, I don’t know what is.
I focus on her, keeping her steady until she can move to the shoulder of the road. The questions, the anger, the confusion, they can wait. Right now, I just need to make sure she’s okay.
“Can you help me? I don’t think my bike is rideable.”
