Chapter 1 #2
It isn’t the giggling girls scampering across the threshold that catch my attention—it’s him.
Out in the driveway, a man—not a boy, but a freaking man—with cantaloupes for shoulder muscles swings his distressed jeans off a Harley.
His white tank seems to glow against his tan torso, a beacon for a desperate woman like me.
He shifts to face his friend hopping off another motorcycle, allowing my eyes to soak in the man’s rose briar tattoo sweeping across one of those massive shoulders.
Mom hates tattoos.
I stumble toward him in my six-inch heels. Goosebumps feather my shoulder blades as I cross the chilly midnight lawn. I’m unsteady, and I’m unsure if it’s due to the contents of my red plastic cup from earlier or because my pointed high heels keep sinking into the grass.
Bike Boy’s helmet swings my way, and then I’m sure I’m hallucinating.
He lifts the helmet away as inky black waves fall to his chin. Framed by thick lashes, two startling green eyes pin me in place on the grass. His rocking bod could have been featured in a Calvin Klein underwear ad. For all I know about him, it might be.
A cocky grin slides across his mouth. His model-worthy face is all angles, his slightly hollowed cheeks punctuated with dimpled amusement. His grin tugs further upward as he scans me from head to foot.
Something about the flash in his eye beckons me closer.
Dares me closer.
Danger seems to radiate off this man, and it’s wildly exciting.
Mom would hate him.
I think I’m in love.
I pry my stiletto out of the last twelve inches of grass when it catches on the driveway’s edge.
My body catapults forward and, horrifyingly enough, bangs into the side of Bike Boy’s motorcycle.
Pain shoots through my shoulder. Even though my eyes are shut, I sense the lurch of the bike falling toward him.
Devastating visions of crushing the beautiful specimen of a man dance behind my eyelids. So, in my most heroic act to date, I perform a sort of ninja-roll to the side in an effort to course-correct my fall. I only end up smacking my forehead on the handlebar and twisting the front wheel further.
I land in a puddle of limbs on the driveway and pray my miniskirt hasn’t ridden above my bright red panties as I brace for the crash.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, a deep, rumbling laugh arises from the other side of the motorcycle. I think it’s safe to assume Bike Boy hasn’t met his demise, unlike my pride. I crack an eyelid to find the man and his friend holding the bike up.
Together, they heave the bike, and I begin the arduous process of climbing to my feet in a tiny skirt and tall heels. Spoiler alert—it’s not cute.
I ignore the pain in my shoulder and the throbbing of my forehead. A quick swipe tells me there’s no goose egg, but the spot has probably turned as bright red as my cheeks.
Speaking of cheeks, I sense a line of goosebumps across the lower half of my butt, letting me know that my skirt indeed has ridden up.
Because of course it has.
Never in my life have I experienced mortification to this degree. Now that it’s happening, it’s like plunging into an ice bath. I can feel the burning shame, but the rest of me is in shock. Numb. I decide to lean into that feeling.
So, I wiggle the hem of my miniskirt down and summon cool confidence like the boss chick I am. I strut around the motorcycle toward the man.
“Get back on the bike,” I say. “We’re getting out of here.”
One black eyebrow shoots behind a wavy lock of hair. He sends a pointed look to his buddy. They both seem to be in their early twenties, like me. Bike Boy’s bristled jaw could cut glass, and he grins at me like I hold the same level of intrigue to him.
“We’re not gonna talk about that whole thing?” He spirals a pointed finger in the direction of my utter humiliation. “You okay? That seemed like it hurt.” The man stilts an arm atop the bike seat, speaking in a tone so rumbly I can practically feel the vibrations.
“I’m fine,” I snap, but then I force my expression into something more coy. I don’t know why I’m talking like this. Why I’m acting like this? Kate Chen may be many things, but flustered is not one of them.
“Pretend you didn’t see anything.” My fingers skim the hem of my miniskirt.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His seductive smile tilts as he picks up on my little game.
“Charming,” I say dryly. “Now let’s get out of here.”
His startling green eyes blow a tad wider. “You don’t know me. Pretty girls like you should be more careful. Especially clumsy ones. To be fair, it did seem hard to walk in those heels while undressing me with your eyes.”
My mouth drops in protest. “I thought you agreed you didn’t see anything.”
“I didn’t.”
His gaze flicking to my skirt and back say otherwise, but I’m set on ignoring it.
“Well? What’s the hold up?” I tap my toes in a rhythm of impatience. Bike Boy is the sexiest distraction I’ve happened upon in a while, and I’m nothing if not in need of a very tall distraction. He’s gotta be somewhere close to six-foot-four.
He shrugs, grin undaunted. “You should probably get to know someone before taking off on their motorcycle, love.”
I snort at the nickname. “Okay, bike boy. What do I need to know about you?”
“My name, for starters. But I think that’s common sense?” Bike Boy directs this question to his shorter, brown-haired friend. He nods emphatically, seeming pleased to be involved.
“It’s Brandon Roberts, by the way.”
While he’s speaking, I sneak a brush across my hairline to see if it’s spurting a delayed goose egg. It isn’t, but man alive, did that hurt. Who knew handlebars were made of baseball bats?
Brandon tracks the movement across my forehead. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Better than ever, Brandon Roberts,” I say sweetly. “Now quit stalling and get back on the bike.” I step beside it, readying to swing my leg when he stops me.
“Not done. Fall’s my favorite season, I love the color red,” he says with a flick of his eyes to my black skirt, “and I hate pancakes. So don’t bother bringing me breakfast in bed.”
I puff out a laugh even as the image elicits a heated shiver down my spine.
“Finished now?”
“Nope,” he says.
“Of course not,” I grumble.
Without warning, Brandon steps so close that I stumble backward. My leather miniskirt presses against the still-warm seat of the bike. I can’t help but take a deep whiff of him. His bad-boy cologne smells spicy—like nutmeg, cedarwood, and sin.
“You should probably know,” his rumbling voice drops impossibly lower, “that forward, bossy women are just my type.”
The look in his eye further sends my world off kilter. Something stirs low in my stomach. The sensation is too intense to be butterflies and could only be described as feral.
Yup. I’ve got a case of feral butterflies for this man.
“Unfortunately,” he murmurs, “I still haven’t gotten your name.”
“Kate.” I swallow. “Kate Chen.”
“Okay Katie.” The introduction of yet another nickname makes me roll my eyes, and he chuckles darkly. “Last question.”
“Finally,” I say, and he ducks his head impossibly closer.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers.
Brandon’s hot breath across my cheeks lights a flame across my skin. He is the perfect picture of danger. A breathing bad decision—and a cocky one at that. His eyes challenge mine, and I decide I’ve never trusted anyone less in my life.
Perfect.
I throw my arms around the column of his neck and close the distance between us.
The kiss tastes like fire—forbidden and outlawed.
Brandon doesn’t skip a beat before his lips take over, pressing mine into a rhythm so exhilarating that I instantly nominate this as one of my top ten encounters.
Maybe even top five.
I part my lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Brandon does, but he also one-ups me by lifting me and setting me atop the seat of the bike. His hands twine in my hair, and I run my fingertips across the rough prickle of his jaw.
I don’t know what I was expecting, or thinking, for that matter, but it definitely wasn’t this. Every nerve ending feels like it’s been set ablaze in this perfect, all-encompassing distraction.
Besides, Brandon’s lack of hesitation and expert kissing skills tell me a lot about the kind of guy I’m dealing with. Even his friend still waiting nearby is utterly unfazed.
But that’s fine. Because we are the same, Brandon Roberts and I.
And I know I won’t catch feelings because I’ve mentally sprayed my non-cling spray onto what my hands are telling me might be an eight-pack.
So I devour this new distraction, almost able to hear my parents’ rage from the other side of Chicago.
I smile.