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I finally reply: “I don’t know. Maybe she spent twenty thousand dollars on a bad decision.”

Ryder grins.

“I’m not your midlife crisis.” He laughs.

“I’m twenty-eight.” I defend.

“Quarter-life crisis.”

“That’s not how math works.”

“Don’t care.”

He picks up his keys. “Be ready at eight.”

I blink. “That’s a yes?”

“That’s me making a terrible decision.”

“Seems to be going around.”

He reaches the door. “Wear jeans. Boots if you’ve got them. Nothing loose.”

“Anything else?”

He looks back. That cocky grin returns. “Try not to fall in love with me.”

I laugh. “Not going to be a problem.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Who is they?”

He opens the door. “See you tomorrow, librarian.”

“Ryder!”

He leaves.

Asshole.

At eight the next morning, Ryder Hale is standing in my driveway beside a black motorcycle.

I stop on the porch.

The machine looks enormous.

So does he.

Black jeans.

Black boots.

Black leather jacket.

Apparently Ryder has decided subtlety is for other people.

He holds out a helmet. “Still time to make a sensible decision.”