Chapter 15 #3
Her stomach flipped at the implication, and her voice came out sharper than she meant. “You’re a creep. You know that? I swear, every time I think you have a decent bone in your body, you find a way to pulverize that thought.”
“Hands?” he said simply, still amused.
Mortified, she shoved the visor down with a snap, hiding her burning face. With exaggerated reluctance, she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned forward. His body was firm under her hands, solid in a way that made her feel both safe and acutely aware of every inch between them.
The kickstand scraped up.
The bike rolled back.
Adrenaline shot through her like a lightning strike. Tate revved the engine again, and the machine vibrated beneath them, alive and hungry.
“Ready?” he asked, glancing back.
She nodded, breath caught somewhere in her throat.
The Ducati surged forward, slipping out of the parking garage and directly between two parked cars and out into the night.
Wind snatched at her hair that was hanging out of the helmet instantly, dragging it free in a streaming banner behind her.
The garage lights flicked past in sharp succession before they burst into the open air of the street.
The rumble beneath her, the pull of gravity as the bike leaned into motion, the sheer exhilaration of speed—it was electric.
Her arms tightened instinctively around Tate’s waist, fingers curling against the fabric of his hoodie, and the warmth of him bled into her palms. His hair whipped around his head, dark strands tugged loose by the wind, and she realized that she was smiling inside the helmet.
He drove carefully, controlled, easing her into the rhythm of the ride.
The city blurred around them until it felt like they existed in their own pocket of air and motion.
When he turned onto a frontage road that ran parallel to the highway, her nerves transformed into something bright and reckless.
She tilted her head back and let out a loud, unrestrained yell.
Tate’s laugh rolled back to her, barely audible over the engine but unmistakably delighted.
“Faster?” he called over his shoulder.
“A little!” she hollered back.
The bike leaped forward with sudden power, throwing her heart into her throat. She clutched him tighter, pressing closer without meaning to, as if he were the only tether she had to the earth. The rush of it all—the speed, the sound, the heat of his body beneath her hands—was dizzying.
She felt wildly free. Alive in a way she hadn’t known she was missing.
And it was Tate who’d shown her.
Nettie clung to Tate’s back as the motorcycle roared beneath them, eating up the night one stretch of road at a time.
At first, she thought he was just taking the long way home, but after thirty minutes of weaving down back roads, dipping onto highways, looping past familiar landmarks, and then right back into her neighborhood, she realized what he was doing.
He was stalling.
It felt like he didn’t want the night to end—and neither did she.
The steady vibration of the bike hummed through her legs and chest, the wind tugging at her jacket and whipping strands of hair loose beneath the helmet.
The world blurred around her. Headlights streaking, storefronts glowing, houses passing like silent witnesses…
but here, pressed against his back, everything felt strangely still.
No arguments. No bitterness. No ghosts of their messy history. Just the road, the dark, the steady thrum of the engine, and the warmth of his body anchoring her. For the first time in a long time, she could breathe.
When he finally coasted into her driveway, the reality hit hard. The magic dissolved with the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. She sighed, already missing the freedom of the ride, the illusion that the two of them could exist in peace, if only for a little while.
Tate cut the engine, the sudden silence pressing in on them. He sat still for a moment, gloved hands tightening on the handlebars, as if gathering courage. Then he turned his head just enough for his voice to carry back to her.
“Where’s your car?”
“At work.”
“Do we need to go get it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going tomorrow or Sunday to get it and put a tire on it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” she asked, exasperated. Her voice cracked through the night air, sharper than she’d intended.
He rolled his eyes, and she caught the flash of frustration in the angle of his jaw. Of course. Always the same. Why couldn’t things ever just be easy with him? Why couldn’t he simply let something go without demanding answers like a prosecuting attorney?
“Why are you getting a tire replaced?”
“Why does anyone get a tire replaced?”
“We’re not doing this,” he snapped, muttering hotly under his breath as she unbuckled the helmet and lifted it off.
“No. You’re right. We are not doing this because there is nothing to be discussed.”
“Why are you getting a tire—and not four new tires?”
“Because I only need one, and it’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business,” he snarled, whipping around to glare at her.
“What is it with you women always driving around in cars that will leave you stranded on the side of the road? You, my sister, my mother— I just don’t get what that second ‘X’ chromosome does to your brain when it comes to safety and vehicles. ”
Her temper spiked, heat rushing through her veins. “I don’t get why that ‘Y’ chromosome thinks that you have any say in my life.”
“I don’t.”
“Exactly—so butt out.”
“When it comes to you being stranded or safe—No.”
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“Why are you making stubborn and stupid decisions just to irritate me?”
“I’m not doing this,” she snapped, shoving the helmet against his chest. She swung a leg off the bike, trying to slide down gracefully, but the slick soles of her shoes betrayed her.
Her foot slipped on the edge of the driveway, and she landed with an undignified grunt—half sprawled on the concrete, half tangled in the damp grass.
“See?” he yelped, already off the bike and reaching for her.
“Don’t touch me!” Nettie shoved her hands up between them like a shield. Anger and humiliation flushed hot in her cheeks. “You are never touching me when you are in a mood like this and snapping at me.”
“Because I’m never touching you!”
“I know!”
For a long, charged moment, they glared at each other, both breathing hard. It was childish, maybe even ridiculous, but she refused to blink first.
“Can you move?” he asked tightly.
“I should be asking you that.”
“I can’t get up with you hovering over me like…” She trailed off, words tangling in her throat.
“Like what?” he snapped—and then stopped short.
They both seemed to realize it at the same time: the way he was leaning over her, one knee sunk in the grass, one hand braced in the yard just above her shoulder. His face hovered barely two feet from hers, his eyes burning with intensity that softened in the porchlight’s glow.
And heaven help her, all she could think about was how solid he’d felt against her during the ride, how safe, how dangerously easy it would be to forget every reason she’d sworn to keep him at arm’s length.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, roughened, not by anger this time but something else. Something she didn’t dare name.
“I’m embarrassed but fine—and I do need you to move.”
“Will you let me help you up?”
“Will it stop you from biting my head off every time I breathe in?”
“Maybe.” His lips twitched, the barest hint of humor breaking through.
“Just move, Tate,” she muttered, trying to roll away. Her elbow sank into the grass, and she groaned. “I’m not doing this.”
“Friends help each other.”
“We’re barely friends.”
“I’m putting forth an effort—why aren’t you?” he asked quietly, settling back on his haunches and giving her space.
The sincerity in his voice pricked something inside her.
She sat up, brushing grass off her hands.
“I’m not… Tate… look.” She sighed, heavy and broken, starting and stopping before forcing the words out.
“We’re… we are not good—you know? I think there is too much push and pull. We’re too much oil and water.”
“I was thinking vinegar and baking soda,” he said softly, a reluctant smirk ghosting across his lips as he held out his hand.
“And there you go,” she muttered, almost resigned. “You feel like you have to one-up me on everything. I don’t need someone correcting me, snapping at me, or telling me how stupid I’m acting… trust me, my brain will alert me of my stupidity all by itself.”
His gaze lingered on her, shadowed and unreadable in the porchlight. The weight of it pressed on her chest until she looked away, suddenly self-conscious.
“I don’t think we have it in us to be friends and…”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted quietly.
Her head snapped back toward him. Of all the things she expected, that wasn’t one of them.
“You might be right about me and my personality,” he admitted. “I’ve always felt like I had to make my presence known by trying harder, shutting down others, or stepping into the limelight… but not at your expense—and I’m sorry. I was just trying to help with the car.”
“It’s not just the car—it’s everything,” she whispered, her throat tightening. The honesty in his words cut deeper than any argument.
“So are you telling me there is no point in us trying to be friends, because I’m too critical when I try to help someone, help you?” His voice was careful, but she could hear the tension beneath, the unspoken fear. He was a live wire ready to snap, and she knew it.
“I’m saying that maybe we need to go a little more slowly, and if I need help, then I’ll ask,” she offered. Her heart ached even as she said it. “I really enjoyed the ride, enjoyed spending time with you, but…”
“It’s over—so go away?”
“The evening is over, and we need to let it end on a high note.”
“And me trying to be nice wasn’t a high note?”
“Tate…”
“Answer me,” he demanded, heat rising in his voice again. “Don’t sigh. Don’t huff. Don’t act like I did this—because I’m trying to help and you are rejecting every single attempt like being around me could give you the plague…”
“I was going to say ‘a headache’,” she muttered.
That did it. He shot to his feet, towering above her, his expression carved from anger and hurt.
“Well, you’re home now, so get some sleep and your headache is leaving,” he snapped, turning on his heel and striding toward the bike.
“Tate…” Nettie scrambled up, guilt crashing into her chest. She hadn’t meant to wound him like that, not really.
He didn’t answer. He yanked the helmet—her helmet—over his head and started the bike, the engine’s growl drowning her out.
She stepped forward, reaching for him. “Tate, let’s talk.”
“I think we’ve said enough for one night,” he countered, visor flipping down as she caught his arm.
“Don’t do this.”
The visor snapped back up, his eyes blazing at her. “I’m not welcome so I’m removing myself from the problem.”
“It’s not that…”
“Then what is it, Nettie? What is it about me, about the idea of us, that bothers you so much?”
The words cut like a blade, slicing right to the truth she couldn’t face. Because he wasn’t wrong. Because she cared too much, was afraid too much, and every time she let herself get close, it hurt.
Her silence was answer enough.
“That’s what I thought,” he said thickly, his voice ragged with emotion. The visor snapped shut, and the bike roared forward, carrying him away into the night.
Nettie stood frozen, watching the red glow of his taillight fade into the distance. The ache in her chest throbbed harder with every second until there was nothing left but silence, the bitter taste of regret, and the undeniable truth she couldn’t escape.
No matter how much she fought it, she still cared – and he had the ability to destroy her all over again.