Chapter 15 #2
“Still good,” Gina sang back, and then delivered her final blow: “If you are ready to go,why don’t you drop off Nettie at home. I’m going to wait for Justin.”
Nettie felt her stomach twist. Oh no.
“You. Are. Kidding,” Tate hissed, each word sharp enough to cut glass. “Justin is my teammate, and you need to quit throwing yourself in his direction. I rode my motorcycle.”
“I’ve never ridden a motorcycle,” Nettie blurted, alarmed before she could stop herself.
“See?” Tate snapped, seizing her words as ammunition.
“There’s always a first time,” Gina sing-songed, eyes locked with her brother’s in a sibling standoff.
“Gina…”
“I can’t,” Nettie whispered quickly, nerves rising. Her palms felt damp, and she clasped them together. “I mean, I could, but I shouldn’t and…”
“Why shouldn’t you?” Tate asked suddenly, his attention cutting toward her like a spotlight.
The intensity of his gaze made her squirm. His focus was a weight pressing down on her chest, and she nearly shrank back against the couch.
“I could take you if you wanted—but I was pretty sure you’d hate that idea.” His tone softened, though only slightly.
“I know you do.”
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t offer,” Nettie countered nervously, words tumbling over themselves. “Gina volunteered you, and it would be weird because we’d be sitting together.”
“We’re standing together, and I assure you it’s normal.”
“Tate…”
“Nettie…”
Their voices overlapped, and silence fell between them.
She couldn’t look away. It was strange—almost as if he was silently asking her to decide for him, to carry the choice he didn’t want to admit he’d already made.
And why? So he could blame her if it turned awkward?
Or was Gina meddling again, pushing them together like chess pieces in a game she’d already decided the outcome of?
Nettie’s bones ached with exhaustion, her brain foggy from the day. Friends gave each other rides home. That’s all this was. If she could just keep her heartbeat steady, it wouldn’t mean anything.
“I’ve never been on a bike,” she said softly, her voice almost fragile. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Can you take it slow?”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised simply.
“Are you sure?” she asked, darting a glance toward Gina, who was smirking like the cat who ate the canary.
Tate, however, was not amused. His expression tightened, darkened, as though her hesitation was another notch against him.
Why did he have to take everything so personally?
Why did it feel like she was always balancing on eggshells around him?
So she stopped balancing.
“If you can keep from killing me,” she said dryly, “I’d love a ride home. I’m exhausted after the day I had and really not wanting to hang around—no offense.”
“None taken.”
His reply wasn’t exactly warm, but it lacked the bite it usually carried. For some reason, Nettie suspected he secretly liked her sass.
Then he startled her by holding out his hand.
Nettie blinked at it, wide-eyed, her lips parting. The gesture felt oddly intimate, and when she didn’t immediately respond, he rolled his eyes, already starting to pull it back.
Impulsively, she caught it.
Gina made a pleased little noise, but Nettie ignored her. So did Tate. Their eyes met for a charged moment, neither speaking, before they turned together toward the hallway.
Hand in hand.
It was weird.
Weird seemed to be the theme of the day.
The week.
Maybe the year.
Tate’s hand was large, warm, and calloused. He tugged her gently through the crowd, pulling her close as they navigated the crush of people still lingering, eager for photos or scraps of gossip. She copied his movements, ducking her head, shouldering past the stares and camera flashes.
“Mr. Cassidy?” a security guard said firmly at the exit. Tate nodded, and the guard shifted aside, blocking the photographers as they slipped through.
And suddenly—quiet.
The noise of the arena faded into a distant roar, replaced by the muted sound of car engines and faint traffic beyond the lot.
Out here, in the staff parking area, it was calmer.
Shadows stretched across the pavement under the dim lights, and for the first time all night, Nettie felt like she could breathe.
Tate didn’t slow. He kept his grip on her hand as he strode toward his bike, silent, focused, as though the world around them didn’t exist.
And Nettie— well, she couldn’t stop the thought that whispered through her chest: if this were any other guy, this moment could almost feel like a date.
But this was Tate Cassidy.
Gina’s brother.
The man she swore she wouldn’t fall for. The man wrapped in snark, solitude, caustic comments, and with an attitude like armor. A man who kept the world at arm’s length—and maybe himself too.
It seemed lonely.
They stopped at his motorcycle, the metal gleaming under the floodlight.
Nettie eyed it warily, her nerves sparking all over again.
The Ducati shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights, its paint so black and glossy it almost looked wet, like oil stretched over steel.
She was fairly certain the thing cost more than her entire yearly salary, maybe more than two years, and it hummed with a quiet promise of danger even though the engine wasn’t on yet.
“I’m gonna slide on first and hold the bike,” Tate said, his voice brusque as always. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, like the machine demanded his complete attention. “Just hike your leg over and then sit down. There are footrests so you don’t burn your legs on the muffler.”
Swallowing, Nettie tried not to stare at him as Tate swung one long leg smoothly over the seat with a practiced grace.
He made it look effortless, as if the sleek machine bent itself to his will.
His hoodie and sweatpants seemed comically casual compared to the feral gleam of the Ducati, but on him—on Tate—somehow it fit.
He turned then, just enough for his dark eyes to meet hers, lifting one eyebrow as though silently challenging her.
“Today?”
“Oh yes, of course,” she said too quickly, stumbling over her own tongue. Her hands twisted nervously at her sides. “Don’t watch me, this isn’t going to be graceful or dignified,” she warned, resisting the magnetic pull of his gaze. “I need your shoulder too, so don’t make this weird.”
And heaven help her, he chuckled.
That sound—low and rough—rolled over her skin, sparking something sharp and warm in her chest. She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and solid beneath her palm, and sucked in a deep breath.
Then, with all the determination of someone climbing a mountain face without gear, she lifted her leg, balanced awkwardly, and swung her sneaker onto the seat.
The bike shifted, tilting deliberately toward her as Tate compensated, and she nearly lost her nerve.
But then—miraculously—she was on. Slumping gracelessly, scooting and fumbling like a kid on the world’s most intimidating pony, she managed to plant herself behind him. There was space between them, about six inches, and she clung to that tiny buffer like her dignity depended on it.
“Put your foot on each of those pegs,” he ordered gruffly, pushing his black helmet toward her without ceremony. “Put this on.”
She blinked, fumbling with the surprisingly heavy helmet. “What about you?”
“Trust me, if I lay this bike down on the concrete—you’re going to want a helmet.”
“Again—what about you?” she stressed, tugging it on and noting the visor was still up, making her feel both exposed and cocooned.
“You need it,” he said simply. “I’ll get a second one.”
Her eyes narrowed behind the visor. “Who else do you take riding?”
His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Are you ready yet?” he bit out, looking over his shoulder instead of answering, which only made her bristle more.
She swatted him on the shoulder. “Don’t bite my head off. If you don’t want to do this, then you could have just—”
And then the world exploded with sound as he started the engine. Her voice was swallowed whole by the roar, the growl reverberating through her bones. He revved it once, deliberately, and flicked another look over his shoulder—cutting her off without saying a word.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
He rolled his eyes.
“Scoot up against me,” he ordered, voice raised over the rumble. “And hang on.”
“Um, no.”
“Nettie…”
“Tate, we… we’re,” she stammered, heat climbing her cheeks even as she fought it down. “You and I—we’re not snuggly people.”
“We’re not snuggling,” he chuckled again, and the sound sent another sharp current through her. “It’s called ‘holding on so you don’t fly off the back’ when I drive.”
“But you said you’d go slow.”
“It doesn’t take much when you are a passenger…”
“Oh.”
“Yup. Scoot forward,” he said, patient but firm.
She obeyed, even though it meant the solid line of his back pressed firmly against her chest, his hips bracketed by her thighs.
The scents—his soap, his shampoo, the exhaust and motor oil mixed with something warm she could never quite name—wrapped around her, and the absurd comfort of it made her heart twist.
Again, so weird.
Weird. Weird. Weird.
Then he reached back, catching her hand and tugging it around his waist. The contact jolted her, and she yanked back with a startled noise.
“I’m not touching you there, you sicko,” she hissed.
The laugh that ripped out of him was wild, unrestrained, and so startlingly genuine it made her blink.
It was rough, almost foreign, like something torn loose from deep inside him that he didn’t let out often.
He turned his head enough for her to catch his grin, wide and wolfish, his dark eyes crinkled with real amusement.
“Nettie, if you ever touch me there,” he said, mocking her and still laughing, “I promise we’re gonna be facing each other and your hands would be much lower on my body than my abdomen—but for now, I need you to relax and hold my waist.”