Instead—
“Fine,” I whispered.
The victory in his eyes was immediate, warm, devastating.
“Knew you would,” he said.
And the worst part?
A tiny, traitorous part of me was already looking forward to it.
By the time the sun slipped beneath the horizon, I’d already changed my outfit six times and cursed myself for caring.
There’s no reason to be nervous,I thought as I bit my lip and stared at my reflection.
I was being ridiculous.
“Stop overthinking,” I mumbled to myself, turning in the mirror.“You hate him.This is just for show.”
And yet… I still found myself pausing in front of the mirror, adjusting the drape of my burgundy off-shoulder sweater, tucking a loose strand behind my ear, smoothing the dark gray denim over my hips.My black, heeled boots were covered mostly by the loose ankles, and the gold around my neck and wrist shimmered under the ring light.
My boots clicked softly on the hardwood as I stepped back.Jaxon texted me that he was downstairs fifteen minutes ago, so I needed to move.I applied a shade of dark red to my lips before grabbing my phone and purse.
I made my way out the front door and down the stairs of the townhouse.The second I walked out, the cool air kissed my cheeks and my eyes landed on Jaxon.
And his bike.
“Oh no.We are not doing this again.”
I heard his chuckle from where I stood in the doorway.
Jaxon was leaning against his motorcycle like he’d been sculpted for the position.He wore a black button-up that hugged his chest and arms with two buttons undone to give a little teaser of the tattoos underneath.His look was finished with dark blue jeans, black boots, and his infamous leather jacket.
Andof coursehe was parked directly under a street lamp, so it gave the perfect spotlight.
Anyone walking by would think he was doing a photoshoot forVenture Magazine.
“I'm not getting on that death machine in this,” I insisted, gesturing to my outfit.
Wrong move.
It caused him to trail his eyes down my body, slowly as if he was committing the image to memory.When his eyes met mine, they flickered dark for a second before he smirked.
He pushed off the bike, walking toward me with that slow prowl he probably practiced in the mirror.“You didn’t die last time.Odds are you won't die this time.Fifty-fifty at least.”
“That’s not comforting.”
His smirk widened as he lifted the spare helmet over my head.The protest barely got past my lips before he strapped it on, his fingers brushing the side of my jaw, sending a jolt straight down my spine.
“Relax, trouble.I’ve got you.”
I hated that his voice made warmth curl in my stomach.
He pulled on the straps, ensuring it was secure, before taking my hand and pulling me to the bike.
“Just like last time,” he started, mounting the bike first and putting his helmet on.Then his voice was echoing through my helmet, “Put your hands here and hop on.”
“What was wrong with Benji’s car?”
