“I know that.”
“My bike gets you there.”
“I know that too. I hate that more.”
I stepped close enough that she had to tip her head back. Not much. Just enough. Her eyes sharpened, but she didn’t move away. Damn if that didn’t do something stupid to me.
“You scared?” I asked.
Her gaze cut to my mouth, then back up. “Of the motorcycle? Sensibly.”
“Of me?”
She gave me a slow, unimpressed look. “Please.”
Liar.
Not because she feared me.
Because she felt it too.
That hot, mean pull sitting between us like a live wire neither of us had the sense to step over.
I lowered my voice. “Then get your bag.”
“I need clothes.”
“One bag.”
“I’m moving. I don’t have one bag.”
“One bag for today.”
“I have toiletries.”
“Bring ’em.”
“Laptop.”
“Bring it.”
“Field documents.”
“Bring what matters.”
“My French Vanilla creamer.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
“You’re joking.”
“I am emotionally dependent on flavored coffee and refusing shame.”
Regan lifted her mug. “Respect.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Fine. Creamer too.”
