Chapter 3
NETTIE
Nettie leaned her head against the headrest, the last notes of laughter still tumbling from her chest. Her stomach was pleasantly heavy from potato skins, salt lingering on her tongue, her hair whipping in the late-autumn wind that was still uncomfortably warm, pouring through the open windows.
Gina’s new car smelled like leather and faint vanilla, her stereo system rattling the doors with Taylor Swift blaring out into the dusky air. For the first time in weeks—no, maybe months—Nettie felt good.
Unburdened.
Wild.
Alive.
The westbound stretch of I-20 sprawled ahead, the skyline of the metroplex shrinking in the rearview.
Out in front, the horizon cracked open in a riot of colors: fierce gold bleeding into peach, then sinking into bruised purples and fiery pinks.
The kind of sky that made you believe—just for a heartbeat—that if you drove fast enough, you could catch the sunset and keep it.
Nettie smiled to herself, remembering that old rhyme:
Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
If only she’d known how sharp the truth of that little saying was about to become.
Right now, though?
She didn’t care where they were headed. Gina’s hand was out the window, catching the wind as she belted out lyrics with reckless abandon, pointing dramatically at her stomach mid-chorus to mime her desperate need for a pit stop.
The girl refused to mute Taylor until the song was over—because apparently, bathroom breaks bowed to fairytale love songs, the very kind Nettie secretly longed for with an ache she never spoke aloud.
And then—
“Whooooa, hello Hotness! Nice bike,” Gina crowed, words breaking between verses.
Nettie blinked, turning her head.
Her breath snagged.
The motorcycle was sleek, dangerous—an obsidian blur of polished metal and quiet menace.
The rider astride it was even more so—broad shoulders, long legs, every line of his body a study in effortless power.
Black gear clung to him like a second skin, and despite the October warmth, he wore it as if it were armor.
The Ducati growled beneath him, a beast purring at his command.
Gina’s car rolled up beside him at the light, and before Nettie could even exhale, Gina smacked her arm.
“Say something to him…”
“Noooo…” Nettie’s protest was immediate, panicked. Her pulse beat in her ears.
“Be brave, girl! I know you have it in you.” Gina’s grin was wicked, her eyes dancing. “Who was just singing every lyric to Taylor and One Direction not five minutes ago? That’s right. You. Come on—say something!”
Another stoplight.
Another chance.
Nettie’s stomach twisted with something half terror, half exhilaration. Against her better judgment, she unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned dangerously out of the window, and let the word fall openly between them as her heart slammed wildly against her chest.
“Hi.”
The rider tilted his head. A gloved finger pointed firmly down at her seatbelt, a silent command. Then, a quick shake of the helmeted head before the light blinked green and he surged forward.
She should’ve obeyed.
She knew it.
The man was a stranger, a faceless unknown hidden behind that mirrored visor.
But wasn’t that the point? Talking to someone who didn’t know her, who wasn’t part of the suffocating small world she’d grown up in, felt intoxicating.
For once, she wasn’t careful, predictable, old-fashioned Nettie.
She was trying on ‘bold’ for a moment – relishing it.
“Look at you go…” Gina’s voice was gleeful. “He could’ve passed us easy, but nope—he’s waiting at the next light again. I think he wants to talk to you…”
Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. Gina’s encouragement, his refusal to speed away—it made her reckless. Emboldened. What was she doing? What did she even want? Her palms were damp against the windowsill as the car slowed to another stop.
“Hey there…” Nettie leaned out further, her voice higher than she intended. “Are you single?”
For a heartbeat, silence. He didn’t answer. Just stared, visor aimed squarely at her. Again, that firm, infuriating gesture—buckle up.
The light flipped green, and Gina squealed as they both rolled forward. She was clutching the steering wheel like it was Christmas morning.
He was keeping pace with them.
Unbelievable.
“Oh my gosh, he’s staying with us! You’ve got this!”
Nettie swallowed.
Courage—no, foolishness—burned hot in her chest now, lighting her up from the inside out.
By the third stoplight, she was past thinking, past reason.
She leaned out further still, hair whipping her face, her voice loud and daring as it leaped into the dangerous air between them.
She was really grateful that her favorite hair stick, a long ‘U’ shaped device that looked like an instrument of torture, was tucked safely in her purse right now.
“Want something a little more fun and exciting than that motorcycle between your legs?”
“You hussy!” Gina shrieked, slapping her thigh in scandalized delight.
The rider didn’t move a muscle. But oh, he heard her. She could feel the fury radiating from him even before his gloved hand jabbed downward again, sharper this time, unmistakable.
Sit down.
Buckle up.
Nettie laughed, reckless bravado bubbling out of her, covering the nervous quake inside her belly. “Come over here and make me, big fella...”
And then—
The man’s hand flew to his helmet, yanking the visor up.
Nettie’s world shattered.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was Tate.
Gina’s brother.
“Oh gosh…” she breathed as her soul shriveled like a paper set on fire.
If she were a spider, her very being had just been doused with the world’s most toxic of chemicals before being set ablaze.
A part of her died, right here – right now – and she saw it oozing up like some comical ghost between them.
Time of death?
Six-forty-nine p.m….
“SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN IN THE CAR NOW, BERNADETTE!” Tate’s roar was thunder, ripping across the space between them. No one ever called her Bernedette – ever. It was like a crack of venom being whipped at her. Her name in his voice was like a strike to the chest… lethal and potent.
“Tate?” she whispered, horror crashing over her.
Her gaze scrambled over him—dark, furious eyes that always seemed to see too much. That long, proud nose, broken once, twice—maybe more—in fistfights and hockey games. That angry, hard mouth, set in a line carved from rage and disdain.
Tate Cassidy. Gina’s older brother.
The man who had mocked her, dismissed her, ignored her existence for most of her life.
“OMIGOSH, THAT’S TATE?” Gina yelped from the driver’s seat, her disgust and horror were so emphatic it was almost comical.
“Not hot! Not hot! Soooo not hot! Ewww—I need to soap my eyeballs right now… AND WHEN DID YOU GET A MOTORCYCLE?” she demanded, her voice climbing shrill as a fire alarm.
“Mom’s gonna flip her lid if she catches you on a bike… ”
“Sit down now,” Tate growled, leaning so close that Nettie could see the flames of anger burning in the depths of his eyes. Her bravado cracked. She shrank back into her seat like a scolded child, pulse racing, skin mottled red with shame.
The light flicked green.
None of them moved.
Tate’s voice was iron. “Now, buckle up—and stay in your seat. You don’t need to pick up men like some tramp.”
The word slashed through her.
Tramp.
Nettie gasped, as did Gina, but Tate’s glare swung to his sister, sharp enough to cut steel. “And you! If you valued her as a friend, you wouldn’t encourage her to do these stupid, infantile things.”
“Nettie, he doesn’t mean—”
“YES, I DO,” Tate barked, the roar of it rattling her bones.
Spittle shone on his lip, his whole body vibrating with barely controlled rage.
“You could have fallen out of the window, got hit by another car, died, and I’ve had a crappy day already.
Seeing you do this bit of stupidity is not helping—”
A honk blared behind them. Without looking away from where Nettie sat frozen as he dressed her down verbally, Tate shot up his middle finger to the other vehicle with zero care. Fury was radiating from every line of his body as he glared at her like she’d wronged him personally.
He was immovable.
An angry god scowling them into dust.
“Gina—take her home.”
“I’m gonna tell Mom you got a crotch-rocket…” Gina sing-songed under her breath in a taunt that only a sibling could toss recklessly between them, knowing the effect it would have.
“Ginaaa…” Tate growled hotly – enough to give Nettie goose bumps in warning.
“Byeee!”
The tires squealed as Gina hit the gas, the car fishtailing briefly before shooting forward. Nettie’s stomach stayed behind, her pride shredded and smeared across the asphalt… by Tate.
Beside her, Gina rolled her eyes. “Tate’s so pissy sometimes—I swear.”
But Nettie couldn’t speak.
She couldn’t breathe.
Because Tate Cassidy wasn’t just pissy, he was the one man who could strip her bare with a single word, crush her with a single look. He had shattered her confidence years ago—mocked, ignored, belittled—until her innocent crush had withered into ashes. He’d left her broken, humiliated, invisible.
And now he was here, back in Texas, again. A bottle of dark rage on a black Ducati. A man who could never be hers. The scowling boy she had once loved had turned into the monster of a man she could never trust again.
When had he returned?
Why hadn’t Gina mentioned that?
And if opposites attracted, then they were completely doomed.
They were oil and water – boiling water and the most pathetic, rancid oil.
There was nothing but fire and fury between them.
Zero attraction. Zero compassion or consideration.
Zilch. He hated her with a passion, and she was hesitant to even be within range of his line of fire.
And always would be like that between them.
Forever.