I lift my chin. I told myself I was breaking my habit of being the people pleaser. I promised myself this year I wasn’t explaining things to everyone. But his eyes, the glare, he needs something solid to get through to him. So the words tumble out, “He’s a biker.”
That gives him pause, but only briefly. “Is that supposed to scare me?” he asks.
I meet his gaze. “It’s supposed to make you understand that I’m not available.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s decided the bluff is worth calling.
“You’re lying,” he challenges. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
I swallow, anger flaring hot and sharp. “I don’t care what type you think I am.”
He steps closer again, close enough that I can smell his breath. “Look,” he states firmly but quietly. “You turned me down. Fine. But don’t insult me with some made-up boyfriend story.”
“I’m not insulting you,” I reply. “I’m simply explaining to you that this won’t work. It needs to stop.”
He laughs, actually laughs, and the sound scrapes along my nerves.
“You really think some imaginary biker’s going to come roaring in and save you?” he says. “This isn’t a movie, Danae.”
My pulse hammers. “Let’s just forget this,” I change tactics. “Pretend nothing happened. We work together. That’s it. I’m not available and you can find someone who is to take to dinner.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing my arm.
I flinch. “That’s not how I forget things,” he murmurs, leaning in. “I prefer a?—”
The sound of an engine cuts through the air. Low. Powerful. Close.
Lucas’s head snaps up as a single headlight sweeps across the lot, stopping just short of us. The bike rolls to a stop a few feet away, engine rumbling like a warning.
A man swings off. It’s him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a black t-shirt, tattoos crawling down his arms, black jeans, black boots, and a scowl that could make Greek God’s cower. He moves with an easy confidence that makes space bend around him, like he expects the world to get out of his way.
My breath catches.
He walks toward us without hurry, gaze locked on Lucas. There’s no smile on his face. Just calm. Cold. Controlled.
He stops beside me and holds out a helmet. “For you,” he explains. His voice is low, steady. Familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense because I know him, but I don’t actually know him.
I take the helmet automatically, my hands shaking just a little.
Lucas scoffs. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The man finally looks at me, just for a second. His eyes soften, barely. Then he looks back at Lucas. “Is there some kind of misunderstanding here?” he asks.
The words are polite. The tone is not.
Lucas straightens, bristling. “Who the hell are you?”
The biker’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m the man she made up.”
“That so?” Lucas sneers. “Funny. She didn’t mention you ever before.”
The biker steps closer, just enough to invade Lucas’s space. Not threatening. Not aggressive. Certain. “She doesn’t owe you an explanation,” he states.
I swallow hard, heart pounding. “Miles,” I start, then stop, realizing I don’t actually know his name. I just remember the patch on his cut the night I stitched him up.
The biker glances at me again, something like a smile tugging at his mouth. “You ready, baby?”
