He climbs off his bike, pulls off his helmet, sending his golden locks flying around his face, and manually rolls up the garage door, then glances back at me as if making sure I’m not going to drive away.
Fuck.
His blue eyes pierce me even from there. The windshield doesn’t offer me any protection. The intensity of his gaze still raises goosebumps across my skin.
I grip the wheel tighter, my foot still depressing the brake while I debate making a run for it.
Why the hell did I agree to follow him back here?
Deep down, in the places I don’t like to think about, I know why.
Because I was a hot fucking mess after that meeting, and he wasn’t going to let me just walk away when he could see how shaken I was by what we discussed. By what is coming.
Even more so, I agreed to come because he would’ve followed me if I hadn’t to ensure I was all right, and I do not need that man knowing where I live any more than I need to hear his thoughts about my work ethic.
If I try to leave, he’ll just come after me.
It’s what he was trained for. Laser focus. Completing tasks. Hunting down people. Ensuring his target doesn’t slip away.
Especially now that he revealed he was a Ranger, I understand his earlier quip about me not knowing it if he were actually stalking me. He certainly possesses the skills to stay in the shadows, to remain undetected, even by someone as observant as I am, if he really wanted to.
But Gage has been very direct and public about his intentions with me.
The only thing clouding it has been my inability to accept him at face value. That nagging feeling that he’s keeping things from me. But tonight, he was forced to drop some of that façade.
What’s holding you back, Bishop?
He watches me now from the open garage door, my headlights shining directly on him, illuminating his broad, muscular frame and the set of his shoulders that suggests he absolutely will drag me back here kicking and screaming if I leave before he says whatever he needed so badly to say in private. Or he’ll try, at least.
Now that I know what type of training he’s had, it would certainly be entertaining to try. But there isn’t any point fighting it tonight.
I don’t think I have the energy to. This lack of sleep and constantly being on edge has frayed my nerves more than I ever knew possible. It feels like teetering on the edge of an abyss, which I am one exhausted misstep from falling into, with shaking legs.
The arms of the man standing in front of me would be a much better option.
I release a long, heavy breath and throw the car into park, shutting off the engine. He finally looks away and moves his bike inside while I climb out and slowly follow him into the historic building.
Given the ancient brick and peeling paint everywhere I look, I would guess it must have stood here for at least a hundred years. Big enough to hold two vehicles at a time, it currently houses his Harley that he just rolled in and another bike up on a stand. A long table filled with tools stands along one wall near a door in the corner, and a set of metal stairs leads up to a second-floor loft.
The smell of motor oil, gasoline, and metal permeates the air, along with a hint of the leather and spice scent that Gage always carries with him.
I move toward the bike up on the rack, examining the frame lines and the old, rusted tank. “Is this an Indian?”
Gage’s brows rise as he nods. “It’s my current project.”
“What year?”
His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting a grin. “You think you can guess?”
I run my fingers across the tank. “If I guess the year correctly, do I win something?”
“Maybe.”
He leans back against a counter behind him, watching me take in everything I can see in the dim lighting provided by a single overhead bulb.
“Well…” I glance up at him. “It’s a Chief.” He grins. “I’d say it’s a ‘47, but it might be a ‘48.”
His grin grows, as does the heat emanating from his appreciative gaze. “Impressive. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything about you is.”
