Dirty Delivery (Bound & Delivered #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Savannah

When Rylan leads me into his garage, I’m not prepared for what I see. The space is pristine, and the polished floors gleam under overhead lights. But it’s the collection of vehicles that leaves me speechless. Rows of sleek motorcycles and luxurious cars, from vintage classics to the latest models, line the walls.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, turning in a slow circle. “This is . . . insane.”

Rylan leans against the doorframe, that panty-dropping smirk firmly in place. “They’re just toys, mo stóirín.”

“Just toys?” I shoot him a look, pointing at a shiny red Ducati. “This thing probably costs more than my house.”

He shrugs and walks over to a cabinet mounted on the wall. “Can’t take it with you when you’re gone,” he says while pulling out a set of keys, two black motorcycle jackets, and two helmets. One helmet is sleek and matte black, while the other has a soft pink stripe running down the center.

I eye the smaller jacket and helmet suspiciously. “You have a habit of taking other girls for rides?” I ask, my tone sharper than intended.

Rylan doesn’t miss a beat. He turns to me with a coy smile and says, “I bought it for you.” His voice is casual, but the way his green eyes hold mine sends a shiver down my spine.

The cocky bastard.

He steps closer and helps me into the jacket. His fingers linger as he zips it up. “Perfect fit,” he murmurs before reaching for the helmet. “Ever ridden on a motorcycle, mo stóirín?”

“No,” I admit, a sudden wave of nervousness tightening my chest. I shift slightly, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my top as I avoid meeting his gaze.

“You’ll love it,” he says confidently.

He strolls over to a sleek black Yamaha YZF-R1. The curves of the bike are as sleek and enticing as the man standing beside it. He swings a leg over effortlessly before patting the seat behind him.

“Climb on,” he instructs with a slight tease to his voice. “And hold on tight.”

I hesitate for a moment but step up and settle behind him. My hands grip his sides awkwardly.

“Tighter, Savannah,” he says over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a near growl. “I won’t let you fall.”

Blushing, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my body closer to his. The engine roars to life, a deep, throaty sound that vibrates through me as he eases the bike out of the garage and through the open security gate.

The ride is exhilarating. The wind rushes past us and the hum of the engine vibrates through every inch of me. The world blurs as we speed down the open road, the lights of the city twinkling in the distance. I hold on tighter, pressing my cheek against his back, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel free.

By the time we pull up to the pub, my legs are shaky, and my heart is racing—but for all the right reasons.

“That was amazing,” I gush, climbing off the bike and brushing my hair back with trembling hands. “Why didn’t I try this sooner?”

Rylan chuckles, removing his helmet and shaking out his tousled hair. “Told you you’d love it. I’ll have you hooked in no time.”

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the grin that stretches across my face.

The pub is charming from the outside, with warm lights spilling out onto the cobblestone street. Inside, it’s even better. The air is thick with laughter and the scent of Irish whiskey. The décor is rustic and inviting, all dark wood and worn leather. A stone fireplace crackles in the corner, adding to the cozy atmosphere.

Rylan leads me to a high-top table near the back, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. He pulls out a chair for me, his chivalry both surprising and endearing. Before I can sit, though, he leans in close, his breath warm against my ear.

“Stay here, mo stóirín,” he murmurs. “Don’t wander.”

I shoot him a questioning look, but he’s already gone, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. Shaking my head, I sit down and take in the scene. The pub hums with life, buzzing with energy and steeped in history and stories. Dark wooden beams span the low ceiling, their surfaces polished smooth by time, while brass fixtures cast a warm glow over the walls adorned with black-and-white photos and faded memorabilia. I heard once that it was rumoured to have been a Prohibition-era hideout, the place carries a sense of mystery, its creaking floor boards echoing with footsteps of generations past. Behind the bar, shelves brim with Irish whiskey, some bottles so old their labels are barely legible. The scent of malt, oak, and a faint hint of smoke from the crackling hearth fills the air, grounding the space in its timeless charm.

My attention shifts, and I glance around the room. At first, it’s just idle curiosity, but then I catch sight of a familiar face. My heart skips. It’s Daria, my best friend Sarah’s twin sister. And sitting next to her is Sarah herself.

The logical part of my brain reminds me to stay put. Rylan’s words echo in my head, warning me to stay at the table. But the excitement bubbling in my chest drowns out the logic. Without thinking, I weave through the crowd, unable to resist the pull of seeing familiar faces.

“Sarah!” I call out as I approach.

She turns, her eyes widening in shock. “Savannah? Oh my God, where have you been? I thought you were ghosting me!”

“My phone broke,” I lie. “It’s been a mess.”

Daria’s sharp eyes sweep over me, assessing, while Sarah jumps up to hug me. “You could’ve at least borrowed someone’s phone to let me know you were alive!” Sarah scolds, but there’s relief in her voice.

Before I can respond, a familiar arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back against a solid chest.

“Evening, ladies,” Rylan’s smooth voice cuts in. “I thought I told you to stay at the table, mo stóirín.”

I plaster a fake smile on my face, suddenly hyper-aware of his possessive grip. “I was just saying hi to my friends.”

Sarah’s eyes widen further as she takes him in. “So this must be why your phone is broken,” she says, her tone teasing.

Rylan smirks, extending his hand. “Since Savannah doesn’t seem inclined to introduce me, hi, I’m Rylan. Her boyfriend.”

My jaw drops. “That’s presumptuous.” I laugh nervously.

Rylan’s grin turns devilish. “Didn’t seem that way last night when you were screaming my name.”

Sarah and Daria’s mouths fall open in unison, mirroring my own shock, and I want to sink into the floor. “Rylan,” I hiss, my cheeks burning.

“What?” he says innocently. “Just being honest.”

I turn back to my friends. “He’s . . . a lot. I’ll call you soon, I promise.”

Rylan doesn’t let go of me as we head back to the table. The second we sit down, I glare at him. “Boyfriend?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Seemed easier than explaining.”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with a smile.