Chapter Seventeen
Cece
The shop calls a little after nine the next morning, right when I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to decide if I care enough to do a full face of makeup for a four-hour drive home.
Apparently, I do not.
My phone starts vibrating on the counter beside my makeup bag, and the second I see the Miami number, everything else gets abandoned. Revel is stretched across the bed behind me, half-dressed and scrolling through his phone, but he looks up the second I answer.
“Hi, this is Cece.”
The mechanic doesn’t drag it out. The road test went fine, the diagnostics came back clean, everything they replaced is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do, and my Honda is officially ready to be picked up.
Relief hits first, because thank fuck. I’ve spent most of this trip wondering if every update from the shop was going to come with another problem attached to it.
I thank him, confirm we’ll be there soon, then hang up and turn toward Revel.
“She lives.”
He grins. “Knew she’d pull through.”
I stare at him. “Uh, you have literally criticized that car every single chance you’ve gotten.”
“Yeah, well, that was before she broke down and got me stranded in Miami with you for three days.” His grin gets wider. “Little death machine kinda won me over after that.”
I snort. “So now you love her?”
“Fuck yeah. Best wingman I’ve ever had.”
I toss my phone onto the bed and go back to my makeup bag, shoving the last few things inside before zipping it closed.
I’m still wearing one of Revel’s shirts from last night, the hem brushing high on my thighs, and when I glance at him through the mirror, his eyes are already dragging slowly down my body.
Not subtle.
Not even pretending.
I let mine do the same right back.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but black sweats, tattoos on full display, looking entirely too fucking good for someone who hasn’t even had coffee yet.
His gaze catches mine in the mirror.
Then drops to the shirt again.
A second later, he shifts on the mattress and adjusts himself through his sweats.
I turn around, smiling. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re over there fighting for your life because I’m wearing a T-shirt.”
“My T-shirt,” he corrects, eyes sweeping over me again. “Big difference.”
“You’ve seen me in your clothes all week.”
“Yeah, and somehow it still fucks me up every time.”
I laugh and toss my makeup bag into the suitcase. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously hard for you.”
I roll my eyes, the smirk still pulling at my mouth as I point toward his half-packed duffel. “Pack your shit before I get violent.”
His grin goes filthy. “Mama, you threatening me just makes me harder.”
He winks, then pushes to his feet and crosses the room before I can tell him to fuck off. One arm hooks around my waist, pulling me into him long enough to press a kiss to the top of my head.
Then he lets me go like he didn’t just make my stomach flip and goes back to packing his shit.
Cabrón.
Packing is easier than it should be considering we’ve somehow managed to make this hotel room look lived in over the last few days.
Clothes are draped over the chair, Revel’s shoes are near the end of the bed, my laptop charger is twisted through three other cords beside the table and there are empty water bottles everywhere because, apparently, this man hydrates like he’s preparing to cross a goddamn desert.
I start clearing my side of the room while he handles his, and for a few minutes neither of us says much. There’s music playing quietly from his phone and traffic moving beyond the windows, but the room itself feels different knowing we’re actually leaving.
Yesterday, when the shop said the part was installed and they only needed to finish testing everything, I should’ve been excited.
I had been waiting for that update since the second my car betrayed me, but instead all I could think about was how quickly this little Miami bubble had become something I didn’t want popping yet.
That feeling hasn’t gone away overnight.
I’m still ready to go home. I miss Guac enough that I’ve started checking the pet camera more often than any sane person should, and Bex has threatened to file a missing-person report even though she knows exactly where I am.
But there’s a weird weight to folding my clothes and watching everything disappear back into bags.
It isn’t sadness, exactly.
More like knowing something changed here, and now I have to figure out whether it still works when we’re back somewhere familiar.
Revel zips his duffel and glances over. “You’re thinking hard again.”
“I’m packing.”
“You do both.”
I shove another shirt into my suitcase. “Maybe I’m thinking about how annoying you are.”
“You don’t have to think about that. It’s pretty obvious.”
“Good point.”
He laughs, and that’s the end of it.
No pushing.
That is another thing I’ve started noticing about him.
When we first met, Revel would poke at every reaction until I wanted to throw something at his head. If I looked annoyed, he pushed harder.
If I got quiet, he filled the silence just to see if he could drag something out of me.
Now he seems to know when to let me have a thought without turning it into a fucking interrogation.
Which is somehow more dangerous than when he was annoying.
By the time we’re ready to leave, the room has gone back to looking generic. Suitcases closed, chargers packed, bathroom empty.
All the little pieces of us are gone from the surfaces and shoved back into bags like none of this
I sling my purse over my shoulder and reach for my suitcase, but Revel gets there first, grabbing the handle before I can.
“I can carry my own shit.”
“I know.”
“Then give it.”
“Nah.”
I stare at him. “You do know I survived just fine before you, right?”
“Yeah, Mama.” He hooks his duffel over his shoulder. “But I’m here now, so carrying your shit while getting threatened daily is basically my community service.”
I blink. “Did you just steal my line?”
His grin turns smug. “Just trying to be more like you.”
“Smart-ass.”
“See? Threat number one for the day.” He shifts my suitcase into one hand and hooks his duffel higher onto his shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m already putting in hours.”
I roll my eyes but finally let go of the handle. “Fine. Carry it, Papi.”
His brows lift at the easy surrender, that smug little grin spreading across his face as he takes a step backward toward the door. “Look at that. Cooperation.”
I point a warning finger at him as I grab my laptop. “Don’t make me regret it. You’re still on probation.”
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, fighting a laugh. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Liar.”
His wink says I’m absolutely right.
A few minutes later, we’re back on the loaner Ducati, my arms around Revel’s waist as he pulls away from the hotel and heads toward the shop.
The morning air is already warm, heavy with salt and exhaust, and Miami moves around us in flashes of white buildings, palms and too-bright sunlight.
I sit close behind him, cheek near his shoulder, one hand resting against his stomach while the other hooks around him a little tighter every time some asshole cuts across traffic like turn signals are optional.
Revel glances at me in the mirror once.
I know that look.
I squeeze his side. “Eyes on the road, pretty boy.”
His laugh disappears into the engine noise.
The Ducati feels completely different now than it did when this whole mess started. Back then, riding with him felt like one more thing I had to stay aware of—his body under my hands, how close I was sitting, whether he could tell I liked being there more than I should.
Now I don’t think twice about leaning into him when we stop at a light.
Don’t think twice about my fingers spreading over his stomach or the way his hand briefly leaves the bar to squeeze my knee before the light changes.
It’s just easy.
That might be the part fucking with me most.
Miami is bright and loud around us, exactly the same as it’s been all week. People crowd patios in barely any clothing, palms bend in the breeze coming off the water, music spills out of open storefronts and somewhere nearby somebody is already blasting bass hard enough to compete with traffic.
The ride to the shop is easy, which is probably the weirdest part.
I’m wrapped around Revel on the loaner Ducati, my thick braid snapping lightly against my back every time he changes lanes, and I don’t spend the whole ride overthinking where my hands are or how close I’m sitting anymore.
My chest is against his back, my arms are around his waist, and when he reaches down at a red light to squeeze my knee, I just tighten my hold on him and tell him to keep his eyes on the fucking road.
Apparently, this is normal now.
Dangerous.
But normal.
Revel is in black sweats and a black muscle shirt, tattoos out, which is honestly rude this early in the morning.
Every time we stop, my gloved hands wander without me even thinking about it, sliding over his arms, across his shoulders, down his back just to feel the way all that muscle shifts under my palms.
He definitely notices.
I definitely don’t care.
Then the shop comes into view.
And my violet Honda.
Revel turns into the lot and parks the Ducati near the open bay, killing the engine before planting both feet on the pavement. I loosen my arms from around him, but before I can climb off on my own, he’s already swinging his leg over and standing beside the bike.
Then he turns and holds a hand out to me.
I look at it for a second, mostly because, apparently, this man has decided helping me off motorcycles is part of his personality now.
His mouth curves. “Come on, Mama.”
“I have legs.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
Of course he has.
I take his hand anyway, and the second his fingers close around mine, his other arm slides around my waist to steady me as I swing my leg over.
That’s when my brain decides to drag up the memory of the first time he did this.
Different bike. Different city. Same fucking problem.