Page 35

She studies me—eyes still red but brightening slightly—then says, “What about your work here? You said⁠—”

“I can miss a day. I wouldn’t mind a ride anyway.”

“And the investigation?”

I can’t help but smirk at this. “With all due respect, I doubt going around Bannock and bursting into tears in front of people is likely to help me too much.”

She rolls her eyes at this, and just like that, some of her spark is back.

“You ever been on a bike?”

“Nope.”

“Well, once you’ve experienced a motorcycle, I doubt you’ll ever bother with a horse again.”

Cat snorts then pats under her eyes. “So, this is how you win women, is it? Take them out on your motorcycle and show them a good time? Well, newsflash: despite how I acted last night, the last thing on my mind is getting frisky with you. At least, not today.”

I huff out a dry laugh. “Understood and agreed, but this is just about getting out of Bannock for a while and clearing our heads. I think we could both do with that. What do you say?”

She considers, then nods. “Well, I’d better get dressed then.” At the doorway to her bedroom, she pauses and shoots me a glance over her shoulder. “What should a girl wear for her first dose of biker therapy?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CAT

“Safety first, McIntyre.” Robbie hands me a helmet with a no-nonsense look, his eyes briefly taking in my outfit—fitted jeans, comfy checked shirt buttoned over a simple tank top, and the denim jacket I grabbed at the last minute.

“What? Not biker chick enough for you?”

“It’ll do. Just glad you didn’t come out in that tartan miniskirt you were wearing last night.”

Despite myself, I grin. It’s hard to believe this is actually happening. Just minutes ago, I cried in front of Robbie MacDonald. Broke down and sobbed like a wean. And instead of turning on his heel and leaving, which would have been the easy option, he stayed. Made me tea. Listened. And now . . .

I slip the helmet on, watching as Robbie does the same then swings a leg over his motorcycle in one smooth, practised motion. His powerful thighs grip the machine like he and it were made for each other—man and metal in perfect harmony.

When I climb on, I’m surprised by how intimate it feels. The so-called passenger seat is no more than a small shelf that leaves me balanced just behind him, my thighs bracketing his hips. As I settle in, I’m wrapped in his scent, a heady mix of leather, soap, and something raw and masculine.

Robbie snaps down his visor and I follow suit. The engine growls to life beneath us, sending vibrations through my entire body that are both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Arms round me,” he shouts over the rumble.

I hesitate, my hands hovering near his waist. “I thought we agreed there would be no funny business?”

“This isn’t funny business. It’s basic safety. You need to hold on properly or you’ll end up on your arse when I accelerate.”

“Fine.” Tentatively I place my hands at his waist.

The motorcycle lurches forwards, and just like that, I abandon any pretence of casual contact and instead wrap my arms tightly around him and press my chest against his back, my pride forgotten in the name of self-preservation.

We roar down Main Street, then the motorcycle picks up speed as the houses give way to open countryside. We take a bend in the road, and Robbie leans the bike into it, the ground seemingly inches from my knee. I squeal, my heart hammering in my chest, a cocktail of fear and exhilaration flooding my system. The speed, the closeness, the danger . . . it’s intoxicating.

Fields and forests blur past us in streaks of gold and green. Every curve in the road brings a fresh surge of adrenaline, chasing away the last of my gloom until I’m grinning so hard my cheeks ache.

With every mile we cover, I grow more attuned to Robbie: the solid wall of his back, the way his muscles shift subtly as he steers the bike, the sensation of my jean-clad legs against his. My mind flashes to last night in the woods. His commanding tone, the cool metal of that tantalising piercing against my tongue, his wickedly addictive taste. My entire body had burned with want when he walked away with my knickers stashed in his pocket.

Not the time, McIntyre. Not the time. I shake the memory away, focusing instead on the landscape rushing past us.

All too soon, Robbie slows the bike and pulls off onto a small dirt track that leads to a viewpoint overlooking Glen Garve. He kills the engine, and my ears ring in the hush that follows.