Her smile hits me square in the chest. "So dramatic."
"Realistic." I nudge her nose with mine, kiss the corner of her mouth. "Diner for breakfast. Drive around. Maybe hit the bookstore Maggie won't shut up about. Then we come home and…" My hand drifts lower on her thigh. "…See where the day goes." She knows exactly what I'm saying.
"And if I decide I want to skip the bookstore and get to the last part faster?"
Fuck. "Then we do that. I'm not married to the bookstore. I'm married to you."
She lets out a sound that's half laugh, half prayer. "You keep saying things as though you mean them, and I'm going to forget how to be afraid of this."
"Good. That's kind of the point."
I give her one more lingering kiss. Then I pat her hip. "Up. Go put on something that won't get you arrested if the wind hits wrong."
She slides off my lap, legs a little shaky, and I feel smug as hell about it. "Bossy," she says, but there's a glint now that wasn't there yesterday.
"You love it," I call after her.
She looks over her shoulder, braid swinging, and gives me a look that says yeah, I do without saying it. I follow her down the hall, snagging clean clothes while she disappears into the bathroom. Jeans, dark T-shirt, my cut, boots. She steps out in black leggings and a soft gray sweater that slips off one shoulder. It shows a clean line of skin I'm eager to put my mouth on in six different ways. She zips her leather jacket, fingers quick, and all I can think is mine.
"What?" she asks, catching me.
"Nothing. Just admiring my life choices."
Her ears go pink. "You're impossible."
"Yet you're still here."
Outside, cool air that smells of exhaust, wet pavement, and the faint bite of someone's woodstove. The bike waits, black and chrome.
I settle her helmet over her head, fingers careful under her jaw, checking the strap the way I always do. She holds still for it, eyes on mine. Then I swing on and she climbs up behind me without hesitation. The engine rumbles to life. Her arms slide fully around my waist, her chest to my back, cheek between my shoulder blades.
Yeah. This.
I pull out and open her up on the main two-lane road. Once we're straight and steady, my hand finds her thigh and traces the seam of her leggings with my thumb. Trees flash by. Her thighs bracket mine, gripping when I lean into turns. My hand stays onher leg, only leaving when I need both hands for the road, always coming back.
By the time we roll into the gravel lot, some of the static in my head has burned off in the wind. I cut the engine, sudden quiet ringing. I swing off and lift her helmet off. Her cheeks flushed from cold and speed, eyes bright.
"You good?"
"That helped," she says simply.
Inside, the diner is exactly as shitty as always, sticky tables, squeaky vinyl, old coffee and fresh grease baked into the walls. The clown mural leers from the back corner. I scowl at it on principle.
Mara, our usual waitress, clocks us and smirks. "Clown view?"
"Don't start. Window."
She snorts and leads us to a booth. I take the side facing the door out of habit. Sloane slides in next to me instead of across, hip pressed firm to mine, as though there was never any question where she belongs.
If I die today, that image is going with me.
Mara fills our mugs without asking. Coffee's terrible and exactly right.
Sloane wraps both hands around her cup, watching steam curl. Shoulder leaning into mine.
"What?" she asks when she catches me watching.
"Just thinking I love this on you."
