Chapter 3
THREE
MINDY
The kiss is softer than I expect.
Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… sure.
Jesse’s lips are warm, firm in a way that sends a small, startled shiver through me. For half a second, I forget where I am. Forget the bike behind us. Forget the city humming nearby. All I can focus on is the press of his mouth against mine and the steady, grounding presence of him standing close.
My hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with themselves, until instinct takes over and I grip the front of his leather jacket.
The material is smooth and warm beneath my fingers, and something about that—about him being so solid and real—makes my chest feel tight in the best possible way.
This isn’t a whirlwind kiss. It’s not desperate or rushed or fueled by nerves.
It’s exploratory. Gentle. Like he’s asking a question with his mouth and giving me time to answer.
When we part, it’s slow, lingering just long enough for me to feel the absence of him before I open my eyes. He’s watching me with an expression that makes my stomach flip—curious, a little amused, and unmistakably pleased.
“I’ve never done that either,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.
He blinks. “Done what?”
“Kissed a guy at the start of a date.” My cheeks warm. “At least not before the date actually… starts.”
His mouth curves into a slow smile. “Guess we’re both breaking new ground tonight.”
“Seems that way.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The air between us feels charged, but not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels easy. Like we’re already in sync.
“So,” he says eventually, nodding toward the motorcycle. “Feeling brave enough now?”
I glance at the bike, my nerves fluttering low in my stomach. The fear is still there. But it’s quieter now, dulled by adrenaline and trust and the strange comfort of knowing he won’t push me into anything I’m not ready for.
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with how sure I sound. “I am.”
His grin widens. “All right, Kansas. Let’s ride.”
He hands me the helmet, and as he helps me fasten it, his fingers brush my jaw, careful and unhurried. The simple touch feels oddly intimate, and I wonder if he’s aware of it too.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “Perfect.”
He mounts the bike smoothly, like it’s second nature, then gestures for me to climb on behind him. I hesitate only a second before swinging my leg over and settling onto the seat. It’s higher than I expected, and I instinctively grip his jacket again.
“Comfortable?” he asks over his shoulder.
“I think so,” I say. “Ask me again in thirty seconds.”
He laughs, the sound deep and warm. “You can hold on tighter if you want.”
“I’m already planning to.”
The engine rumbles to life beneath us, low and powerful, and the vibration travels straight through my body. I take a deep breath, then another, reminding myself that I wanted this. That I chose this.
Then we’re moving.
The first few blocks are cautious.
Jesse keeps the speed low, steady. The wind presses gently against me instead of slapping, and I slowly unclench muscles I didn’t realize were tight.
This doesn’t feel like losing control.
It feels like borrowing it.
By the time we hit the next long stretch of road, I’m leaning into him naturally instead of bracing. My helmet bumps lightly against his shoulder blade, and I adjust, resting closer.
His back is warm through the leather. Solid. Steady.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed steady.
We pass the glowing curve of the High Roller in the distance, then veer away from the Strip entirely.
He taps my knee lightly.
“Comfortable?”
I nod, then realize he can’t see that.
“Yes!” I call out.
He gives me a thumbs up.
And then, gradually, he speeds up.
Not recklessly. Just enough to make the wind turn exhilarating.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
I don’t even care that he probably heard it.
The desert air smells different at night. Warmer. Cleaner. Less like exhaust and more like open space. My ponytail flutters wildly behind me, and for the first time since moving here, I feel something unclench in my chest.
I moved to Las Vegas for a job.
For opportunity.
For reinvention.
But this? This feels like arrival.
At another stoplight, he turns his head slightly.
“You still with me?”
“Yes!”
“Regretting it yet?”
“Not even a little!”
The light changes, and he accelerates smoothly again.
A few minutes later, we pass a low shopping plaza with a faded sign.
He points.
“That laundromat right there?”
“Yes?”
“I once helped a guy carry his washer in there because he insisted it was ‘making a weird sound’ and needed professional intervention.”
I burst out laughing.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Turned out it was just unbalanced.”
“And you… diagnosed that?”
“I own a bar. I know things.”
“Clearly.”
We ride another mile before he slows near a residential area.
“That park over there? I coached peewee baseball there for two summers.”
“You?”
“Hard to believe, I know.”
“No,” I say honestly. “Actually, that tracks.”
“Oh?”
“You’re patient.”
He glances back at me briefly, surprise flickering in his eyes.
“You noticed that?”
“I notice things.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think you do.”
The ride shifts then.
It’s not just about showing me the city anymore.
It’s about showing me him.
And somehow that feels more intimate than the kiss.
We ride on, and he keeps narrating the city like it’s a scrapbook of his life.
“That corner?” he says at another intersection. “First flat tire I ever had.”
I laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Formative experience.”
“And that one?”
“First kiss.”
My grip tightens slightly. “Really?”
“Yep. I was sixteen. She tasted like cherry lip gloss and bad decisions.”
I snort. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“Always honest,” he says. “Even when it makes me sound ridiculous.”
The city starts to thin out as we head toward an overlook, the desert stretching out beyond the lights. I feel light. Free. Like I’m not just seeing Las Vegas anymore, but starting to understand it.
When Jesse pulls to a stop and kills the engine, the sudden quiet feels almost sacred. I climb off carefully, my heart still racing as I pull off my helmet.
When we reach the overlook, I’m reluctant to get off.
I don’t want the momentum to stop.
But when he kills the engine and silence rolls in, it’s a different kind of thrill.
The city spreads out below us in glittering waves. The Strip pulses in the distance. Neighborhood lights dot the darkness like scattered stars.
I pull off my helmet slowly.
“I didn’t know it looked like this from here.”
“Most people don’t,” he says. “They stay where it’s loud.”
“I kind of like the quiet.”
“Me too.”
We stand there for a moment, not touching, but close enough that I feel the warmth of him at my side.
“I think,” I say carefully, “this is the first time since I got here that I haven’t felt… overwhelmed.”
He glances at me.
“Overwhelmed how?”
“Like I have to prove something. Like I have to keep up.”
“With Vegas?”
“With everything.”
He nods slowly, like he understands more than I’ve said out loud.
“You don’t have to keep up tonight,” he says. “We’re parked.”
I smile at that.
“Thank you,” I say again. “Not just for the ride. For not making me feel stupid.”
“Why would I?”
“I showed up dressed for the wrong sport.”
He steps closer.
“You showed up.”
The simplicity of that hits me harder than it should.
“You could’ve bailed,” he continues. “Could’ve texted some excuse. But you didn’t. You climbed on.”
My pulse flutters.
“I don’t like quitting,” I admit.
“Good,” he says softly. “Neither do I.”
The space between us shifts again.
I don’t even think about it this time when I lean in.
The second kiss is deeper.
Slower.
His hands settle at my waist, firm but not demanding. Mine slide up his chest, over the leather, feeling the steady beat beneath.
It’s different from the first.
The first was curiosity.
This is choice.
When we part, my lips feel tingled and swollen, and my heart feels too big for my ribcage.
“That was… not terrifying,” I say breathlessly.
He grins. “Progress.”
“I think I might actually be brave.”
“You are,” he says simply.
As we walk back toward the bike, I feel lighter.
“So,” I say. “What does a bar owner do for fun when he’s not giving nervous girls city tours?”
He pretends to think about it.
“I fix things. I argue about football. I try new whiskey and pretend I can taste notes of oak and caramel.”
“You can’t?”
“Absolutely not.”
I laugh.
“And you?” he asks. “What does Kansas do for fun?”
“I organize things.”
“That sounds… thrilling.”
“It is,” I insist. “Spreadsheets are underrated.”
He groans dramatically.
“Don’t worry. I also dance.”
That gets his attention.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Line dancing. Two-step. Country swing.”
He studies me.
“I’ve never line danced.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
I gasp theatrically.
“Jesse.”
“What?”
“You’re a biker bar owner who’s never line danced?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
He laughs.
“Teach me, then.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
I feel a thrill that has nothing to do with motorcycles.
“Then I guess,” I say, stepping a little closer, “we’re not done yet.”
He holds my gaze.
“Never have I ever… line danced.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say.
Maybe I didn’t just win a date. Maybe I won something better.