“I-um…” I don’t want to leave, but I also won’t overstay my welcome. “I’ll be taking off after I finish this.” I hold up my lemonade.
“Your motorcycle is still here… what about a ride before you go?” He says it casually, but there’s a slight tension in his shoulders. "If you want. The weather's perfect. Lilly is here if the girls need anything.”
Three months ago, he would have insisted. Arranged everything, made it impossible to say no. But now he's asking.Actually asking, with escape routes built in, giving me room to breathe.
"Look at you," Lillianna says to Thorne, "asking instead of telling. I barely recognize you."
He flips her off, but he's grinning.
I bite back a smile. Time alone with him, just us and the open road. My head says this might be too soon. My heart says it's been too long. “I’d like that.”
“Perfect.” Lillianna slaps the counter. “I’ll go out and say hi to the girls now.”
The loggia door clicks shut. “You sure?” Thorne asks.
I nod. “Very.”
His smile is slow, devastating. “Let's go.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Thorne
The garage is cool and dim, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the heat outside. The scent of leather and motor oil permeates the air. My motorcycles sit next to her Bonneville. Waiting.
I’d offered to have it dropped off at her apartment, but she refused, saying she was too busy with everything to ride it. That she’d rather wait.
I’d hoped it meant she was waiting until we could go out together. And I’ve been waiting. I haven't gone riding since she left. Every mile would feel incomplete without her alongside me.
Ivy moves past me straight to her bike. There’s a fine layer of dust coating the seat and tank. Sitting for months without a rider will do that.
She swings her leg over and settles onto the seat like she's testing whether it still fits. That smile I love to kiss plays across her perfect lips. “I’ve missed her.”
“I missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” The simple words punch through my chest. She leans forward to twist the key. The metal of her keychain taps the tank as she turns it, then says, “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Hold on.” Pulling in the clutch, she presses the ignition button. Dead silence. Not even a click.
“Shit,” she mutters. "I hit the kill switch when we pulled in last time we rode. But then forgot to turn off the key. I'm a dumbass."
"I've done it too, before I got the keyless start." I move to the workbench for cables. "Let me jump it."
She climbs off while I position my Ducati closer and hook up the cables. Five minutes later, the battery refuses every attempt.
"When did we last ride?" I ask, disconnecting the cables.
She doesn't answer immediately. Her fingers trace the edge of the dusty tank, following the curve of metal like she's remembering. "End of June."
Two months. Too long.
"Battery's shot." I coil the cables, wrapping them tighter than necessary. "That long with the key on, it won't hold a charge."
"Great." She flicks the kill switch. "So much for riding."
"I'll order you a new battery."
