Dear Life(67)

A little disappointed, I get off the bike, take off my helmet, and fidget in place while I wait for Carter, who seems to be catching his breath. He flips his visor up and that’s when I see his eyes for the first time since he started teaching me. They are wide, yet when they rake over my body, it’s not anger I see, it’s . . . concern? He pops the kickstand, gets off the bike, and walks over to me.

In the sexiest way possible—I swear I’m not just saying that—he removes his helmet and drops it to the ground. He does the same with my helmet and then cups my cheeks, searching my eyes.

“Are you okay?” How is he not angry? He’s worried . . . about me.

“Yeah, but I think you should be asking your bike that, not me. She took more of a beating than I did.”

He glances back at his bike and then returns his gaze on mine. “She’s replaceable, you’re not. Are you sure you’re okay? You really flew into the handlebar.”

“I’m okay.”

As if he doesn’t believe me, he continues to assess me. His thumbs run over my cheeks, his eyes rake up and down my body. When he seems satisfied, he lets out a long breath. “Shit, Snowflake. You’re terrible at riding a bike.”

“Hey! It was my first time,” I say. “I bet you weren’t Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle when you first started.”

“Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle?” His eyes twinkle with humor.

“Yeah, you know, Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle.”

“I really don’t.” He laughs now. “Enlighten me.”

“Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle is like pro status, it’s an expression.”

“Huh, never heard it before.” His hands fall to my hips and pull me in closer to his body, sending a bolt of heat straight down my spine, not that I need it. Ever since he kissed me, my body has been on fire.

Gah, he kissed me! My first ever kiss, with a man like Carter. With the man I’ve been crushing on for weeks now, he kissed me, without any warning. It was so magical, like something you would see in a movie, at least that’s what it felt like. I doubt it felt like that for him, of course. I’m sure Carter has kissed many, many girls before me. And none of them would have been so . . . inexperienced.

And when he pulled his lips away from mine, he fell right into step with showing me how to drive, his hands roaming my body, helping me learn something new. To be honest, my learning something new could have just been the kiss, but I still allowed him to teach me how to ride, even though I enjoyed him running his hands all over my body more than actually driving.

But I would never admit that for two reasons: I’m unbearably shy, and I don’t want him to feel like he wasted his time.

Not that I consider what he taught me a waste of time, nope, not one bit.

“Daisy?” He steps closer, his forehead lowering to mine.

“Hmm,” I practically purr. Being so close to him does that to me.

“I don’t ever want you driving my motorcycle again.”

“What?” I pull away from him. “Why not? I wasn’t that bad.”

He doesn’t let me get far because he uses my arm like a yoyo string and reels me back into his body, my palms flattening against his hardened chest. Gosh, he’s so nice to touch. As if he’s a warm biscuit fresh out of the oven, you just need to play with it in your hands, or is that just me?

“Snowflake, you were terrible.”

“Hey now. Terrible is a strong word. I wasn’t that hard on Nancy Drew.”

“I thought we talked about not calling her Nancy Drew,” he counters, light still in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to call her? Harley? That seems so lame. Nancy Drew, now that’s exciting.”

“How is naming my motorcycle after a fictional character who would identify as an amateur sleuth exciting?”

“Because Nancy Drew is exciting and a bit of a mystery, both qualities your bike possesses. I mean, if you were going to be so picky about a name for her, you would have named her already.”

“Who says I haven’t?” He avoids eye contact with me. Oh my goodness, he’s named her!

“You named her? And you didn’t introduce me properly before I straddled her? How rude are you? Gosh, what she must think of me?”

“She was saying you were rude the other day.” His smile stretches across his face in a James Franco way. Sigh.

“She wasn’t saying I was rude.” I take offense. “Now if you ever want me to get on that thing again, you better introduce me properly. You know, it’s not every day I sit on someone. So, a proper introduction will make it less awkward for when I sit on her next.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but don’t you want to know the people you sit on?”

“I don’t sit on people.”

“But if you were to.”

“I don’t sit on people,” he repeats.

“Ugh, just tell me her name.”

“So demanding.” He pushes some of my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering, sending chills down my arms. “Snowflake, I want you to meet Veronica.”

“Veronica?” I giggle.

He shrugs. “I had a thing for Veronica Mars.”

Veronica who? A stitch of jealousy takes place in my stomach. He named his motorcycle after a girl he liked? Did she ever drive his bike? Did he ever try to teach her? The euphoria I was feeling just turned bitter. I thought I was special. I guess just not as special as this Veronica Mars girl.