I narrowed my eyes. “You’re dangerously close to losing your passenger.”
“You need a ride.”
“I also need peace, financial stability, and a cat with a less violent worldview. We’re all living with disappointment.”
Behind us, Amber made a strangled sound that was definitely laughter being smothered by a coffee cup.
Mason stepped closer to fasten the strap under my chin. Too close. His body blocked the sun, and suddenly all I could see was the dark fabric of his shirt, the shape of his throat above the collar, the scar near his jaw, and those ridiculous green eyes focused on the buckle beneath my chin like helmet safety was the most important work of his life.
He smelled like Irish Spring soap, clean and sharp, with mint gum under it. Not cologne. Not the expensive, performative stuff men wore when they wanted women to know they haddisposable income. Just soap, mint, leather, sun-warmed cotton, and faint engine grease.
It should not have been sexy.
It was absurdly sexy.
A man should not be allowed to smell like basic drugstore soap and moral danger.
His thumb brushed under my chin as he tested the strap. “Too tight?”
My mouth had temporarily misplaced language.
He looked up.
The eye contact hit worse at close range. Green, steady, slightly narrowed like he was reading a problem he hadn’t decided whether to solve or burn.
“Sienna.”
I swallowed. “It’s fine.”
His gaze dropped to my throat. I felt the movement of my own swallow like evidence. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
My voice came out thinner than I preferred. I cleared my throat and added, “I am capable of identifying airway obstruction.”
“Good to know.”
He stepped back, and air returned like a civil right.
Regan pushed the water bottle into my hand. “Drink.”
“I already had coffee.”
“Coffee is not hydration.”
“It is emotionally hydrating.”
“Water.”
I drank because Regan had the energy of a woman who would pry my mouth open and pour it in if necessary. Mason watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable, which meant I immediately felt like I was performing basic mammalian function under surveillance.
When I finished, he took the bottle, shoved it into the saddlebag, and mounted the bike in one smooth motion that made my brain produce unhelpful imagery. His thighs bracketed the machine. His boots planted. His hands settled on the bars. Everything about him changed once he was on it. Not softer. Not exactly. More precise. Like the bike translated him into a language he trusted.
He looked over his shoulder. “Get on.”
I stared at the seat behind him. “That’s it? No safety briefing?”
“Don’t fall off.”
