What would it be like to kiss a hot biker?
A long, slow kiss? Or would it be hard and fast?
Havoc likes fast bikes, but something tells me he enjoys a nice, slow kiss.
“Do you need me to carry you inside?”
Yes, please. Then you can kiss me silly. Tell me my ex-husband was a fool.
Wake up. He’s going to think you’ve lost your mind. “Yes. I mean no. I…um…I mean, I’m okay, you don’t need to carry me.”
Havoc tightens his arms around me.
We’re hugging—sort of, my arms are mostly between us—in the middle of my front yard. I pull away, putting some distance between us.
What does one say to their grumpy neighbor who just rushed out in their pajamas to save you from your ex-husband? Thank you doesn’t feel like enough.
Then again, just two days ago, I told him never to speak to me and wouldn’t listen as he apologized. There’s no rule in a manners book that would cover this situation. “Would you like to um, come in for a cup of tea?” Do bikers drink tea? Probably not. “Or coffee?” It’s late in the afternoon. “I, um, mean, you can have tea or coffee or kiss me.”
WHAT? No. I didn’t say that. “Tea or coffee or something else to drink. I have lots of things in my refrigerator.”
“Sure. I’d like to talk and do one of those things.”
WHAT?
No, you’re hallucinating again. But it sure sounded like he said he wanted to kiss you. I step to the side and walk into my house. Thankfully, all the plans are spread out in my office.
Rather than face him, I stare into the fridge like I don’t know exactly what is inside. “I have grape juice, apple cider, champagne, water, orange juice, cherry juice, and some fresh-pressed vegetable smoothie.” My nutritionist has those delivered with my food every week.
“You still have champagne left?”
“Yeah.” There’s no need to mention that Winnie forgot to bring it home with her, and it’s only going to go to waste here. “Would you like a mimosa?”
“Sure.”
At least it won’t go to waste. I grab everything I need, pour a splash of juice into the flute, and then fill it up with champagne.
“Aren’t you going to have one?”
How do I answer that? “I’m in the mood for some tea.” Or not to give my baby fetal alcohol syndrome or whatever else they get from me drinking.
Havoc sits down on one of the stools with a champagne flute in hand. Which totally looks wrong. He needs a beer or something manly. But real men don’t need a certain drink to be manly. They just are. “So you’re married?”
I snort. “Divorced.”
“He didn’t seem to know that.”
“That’s because Darrel is a self-centered idiot that forgot he was the one who handed me the divorce papers and demanded that I make it easy for him and his soon-to-be wife.”
Havoc sputters a little of the drink.
“Yeah, exactly. Turns out his intern lied about being pregnant, and now he wants me back. No, thank you.”
“Exes are the worst. Mine did a number on me as well. I’d like to blame her for my bad behavior, but that was all me. I know you’re probably sick of hearing the words ‘I’m sorry’ from men that don’t mean it. I don’t know why I thought those things, or even worse said them, but I regret it and understand now just how truly wrong I was.”
That actually sounded sincere. “The one thing I can’t get past is Rothswyler…you thought I was having a passionate affair with Rothswyler.”
The corner of his lips tips up in this sardonic little grin. “Did I mention how very wrong I was?”
