Then I kick the bike into drive and start toward the club gates. But not before breaking softly, making her squeal as she slips closer—tightening her hold on me.
The ride stretches out, the wind cutting clean as the city gives way to quieter roads. I take the long way on purpose. Dragging it out. Memorize every second of her pressed against my back.
She taps my shoulder at one point and streaks through our connected helmets. “Are we going to another country?”
“Maybe.”
“Theo.”
“Charlotte.”
“Where are we going?”
I shake my head. “Patience, baby.”
She groans loud enough for me to hear over the engine. “I hate you.”
“No,” I drawl. “You don’tnotlove me. There’s a difference.”
Her fingers curl tighter into my shirt.
About forty minutes later, I finally slow the bike, pulling off near a narrow path edged with trees.
She climbs off behind me, immediately pulling off the helmet. “If this is where you murder me, I’m going to be slightly annoyed.”
“Only slightly?” I chuckle, taking the helmet from her. “Baby, I have a whole evening planned before I dothat.”
“Jerk.”
“Come on.” I smile, holding out my hand that she really takes.
The walk isn’t long, just enough for the noise of the road to disappear completely. Leaves crunch under our feet. And then the trees part.
A small cliff opens up in front of us, the horizon stretching endlessly as the sun dips low, painting the sky in gold.
She stops. Actually stops. “…Oh,” she breathes.
I give her hand a gentle squeeze.
A prospect is already there, finishing up the setup. Blanket laid out, a small spread of food, a bottle tucked neatly to the side. He glances up, gives me a subtle nod, before making himself scarce.
Charlotte turns slowly toward me. “You actually planned a romantic picnic?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling weirdly exposed. “I used to watch you go to your campus terrace every now and then. You rarely missed the sunsets. So… this seemed like a good first date.”
“A good—” She looks back at the view, then at the setup, then at me. “…It’s perfect,” she admits quietly.
Fuck.
“Sit,” I murmur, guiding her down.
It doesn’t take long for us to fall into an easy rhythm after that. Talking. Teasing. Sharing bites of cake while she pours herself some wine—that I quickly refused.
“At least pretend you’re classy,” she says, handing me a glass.
“I am classy.” I take the glass and set it aside. I’m not drinking while she’s on the back of my bike. I’ll never risk that.
“You wiped your cake-hands on your jeans.”
