Chapter 24
ISABELLA
The classroom is empty now. Another day finished after yesterday’s confrontation in the lounge. The bathroom would have been a better choice to hide in. I ducked in there when I spotted the lounge, never really thinking he would figure it out. There he was, looking as shattered as I felt.
I care for you, Izzy.
His faint words, full of conviction, almost broke me. Nearly had me calling him back, demanding to clear the air immediately. But that wouldn’t have been too rash. Something biker Isabella does but not Professor Rossi.
And we are real. Real to me. I wish we were to you.
Soft but insistent, echoing from the faculty lounge yesterday and replaying countless times in the last twenty-four hours. It did feel real. Scarily real. Sunday was a mess with my father leaving, and Diego saw that.
He could have dropped me off at home to sit and stew, but he didn’t. He took charge, took me to his place to talk, and showed me his universe. I loved it. Spending the day in bed with him felt so natural and, dare I say, easy.
His life isn’t charmed, especially with his back injury and having to turn away from the sport he loved. The shrine to his former self attests to that. Yet, he seems to have bounced back so effortlessly.
Whereas one or two things are going wrong in my life. Papà getting hurt and the loss of my beloved bike, which I have yet to grieve properly, sends me into a tailspin. Diego’s betrayal keeps me spinning like I’m on an out-of-control carnival ride that I can’t escape.
I rub my temples, a headache etched across them from all the thinking and crying I’ve done in the last two days.
I should steer clear of him.
Keep my distance.
Let him finish the semester and graduate so we can both move on with our lives.
It’s the smart thing to do. The professional thing.
But the thought of it sends a sharp pang through my chest. The idea of seeing him all semester and then watching him walk out of my life feels unbearable, like losing something I didn’t even know I was searching for.
Yesterday was tough.
I overslept after a restless night of tossing and turning. Showing up late to class isn’t like me, and I can’t afford to fall apart this early in the semester.
Exhausted, I drop my hands to my desk and glance at the clock on the wall and then the dusk sky.
Sitting here in my cold classroom isn’t going to change anything.
I might as well go home, shower, and order takeout.
At least, I’ll be a whirlwind of emotions in pajamas on the couch rather than in my professional attire.
When I finally get all my crap together and head out of the building, I skid to a stop at the unexpected sight before me.
Diego, dressed in black leather, his helmet dangling from the handlebars of a white Ducati Panigale V2 with red accents. His dark hair is slicked back, and he leans against the machine, looking absolutely stunning.
The air in my lungs freezes, and I wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me.
But no, there he is, as real as the ache in my chest. Diego looks up, catching my eye as I stand frozen in place.
His expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of determination in the set of his jaw.
I force myself to breathe and take a cautious step into the cool evening air.
“Rossi.”
I don’t know what I expect him to say or why he’s even here. My mind scrambles for an excuse to walk away, but my feet betray me.
“What are you doing here, Diego?”
Seeing him here, looking so unshakably confident yet somehow vulnerable, throws me off balance.
“Get on the bike, Isabella.”
His hand brushes the helmet dangling from the handlebars, but his eyes stay locked on mine. I scoff, shifting my bag on my shoulder and looking around to see who’s watching us. It was one thing when he did it at my home, but here on campus, it is even more dangerous and far too public.
“I’ve already fallen for that trick. It won’t work again.”
He retrieves the helmet from the handlebars, holds it, and saunters closer. His boots scrape against the pavement. His swagger reflects the same confidence he had the first day he walked into my classroom.
The space between us feels electric with a kind of tension that doesn’t just dissipate, it sparks and burns. But that’s the thing with fire. It grows out of control, destroying everything in its path. My heart and career.
I start to walk past him, intending to ignore the striking machine and its equally striking owner, when he captures my bag, smoothly sliding it off my body and tossing it over his shoulder.
“You know you’re curious. Maybe not about me, but about the bike. How it handles. How it feels underneath you.”
His tone is low and husky, words meant to seduce and draw out the one side of myself that always yearns to be free, especially after the two shit days I’ve had.
“I don’t have time for this, Diego. Now give me back my bag.”
His fingers brush mine. It takes everything in me not to lace them together and climb onto that sleek Italian machine. His touch trails along my sleeve, across my shoulders, until he leads me down the concrete toward the bike.
“Make time, Rossi.”
Standing in front of the bike, gleaming under the streetlights, I take a steady breath. Every instinct urges me to give in, to chase the thrill, but I have to stay strong. I can’t let that wild streak win, not this time.
“Izzy.”
That name.
It cracks something inside me, a fracture I’ve been trying to seal since Sunday.
“I won’t be your backpack.”
His arm drops from my shoulder as he slips his helmet over my head, leaving the visor up so I can glare at him.
“I know. I’m yours.”
He swings a leg over and starts the engine with a deep, beautiful rumble.
With effortless ease and a dazzling smile, he shifts to the sissy seat, making his intentions clear.
He adjusts my bag, ensuring it’s perfectly balanced behind him, then extends a hand, waiting.
It’s all so seamless, so practiced. I’m impressed and disgusted with myself for falling for him so easily.
“Diego, people are looking.”
I glance around to prove my point, but no one’s really watching. The campus is empty, and people are caught up in their own lives, indifferent to how I spend mine. His dark eyes stay locked on mine, unconcerned and unaffected by anyone else’s opinion. It’s one of the many things I admire about him.
“I don’t see anyone but you.” He shakes his hand, insistent that I join him. “Besides, if you put the visor down, no one can see you.”
His logic is as flawed as a child closing their eyes, believing that makes them invisible. I’m torn between hating him and admiring him for it. It’s bold, relentless, and unwilling to back down, and isn’t that exactly what every woman secretly wants?
“Get on the bike, Isabella.” He pats the seat in front of him. “You’re driving this time, so it’s your choice where we go.”
“My car is here. I can’t—”
“We’ll come back for it.”
Per his suggestion, I reluctantly lower the visor and climb on the bike. His hands are on me in seconds, helping me. It’s absurd that he’s going to backpack me. I admire the newness and wonder how long he’s had it since I didn’t see it in his garage.
My fingers glide over the smooth, pristine handlebars as the scent of leather and motor oil blends with his cologne.
Intoxicating and overwhelming. I slide forward, settling into the seat, the bike’s low hum vibrating beneath me.
It’s already exhilarating, and we haven’t even moved.
Diego’s chest on my back makes me feel safe.
His hands rest on my ribs. Not possessive, just firm and trusting.
“Take it slow at first, Izzy.”
I nod, adjusting to the controls. The bike feels powerful, almost alive, beneath my hands. As I kick it into gear, I can’t help the thrill that courses through me. We exit the parking lot, the engine’s rumble echoing against the quiet buildings.
Once we hit the main road, my nerves fade, replaced by pure adrenaline. The city lights blur when I’m full throttle. His grip around my ribs tightens slightly, surrendering control entirely to me.
“Not bad . . .” he says close to my ear. The wind steals most of his words, but the praise is unmistakable.
“Hold on.”
A smirk tugs at my lips. I can’t help myself.
I push the bike faster, weaving through the streets with ease.
But the thrill is tinged with caution. Every time I glance in the side mirror, I see him.
Helmetless, his dark hair tousled by the wind, and his expression calm but watchful.
My pulse spikes at the thought of something happening to him.
I slow down a fraction, easing off the throttle as we approach a quieter stretch of road. I ease the bike to a stop at a red light, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
“Diego, it’s not safe without a helmet—”
“Neither is racing a train,” he cuts in, a teasing edge to his voice that softens the reprimand. “Relax, Izzy. I trust you.”
The words hit me like a jolt. He trusts me with his life right now. That knowledge both exhilarates and terrifies me. He trusts me enough to ride like this.
I don’t trust him at all.
The paradigm isn’t lost on me.
But I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I can, but I can’t take his bike joyriding and act like nothing happened between us.
He appeals to my adventurous side, the one that gets along great with him.
But this isn’t me the majority of the time.
It can’t be, and he has to realize that.
He can’t choose to like only a part of me. It’s all or nothing.
Diego leans forward.
“You’re incredible, you know that?”
The light changes.
I don’t respond.
I am too overwhelmed by the mix of emotions swirling inside me. I keep driving until the city fades entirely, replaced by long, dark stretches of road and the faint hum of crickets in the distance.