Outside the Lines (Sons of Templar MC #2.5)(9)

His boots crunched on the gravel as he directed us toward a bike. His bike.

He gently, more gently than I ever thought possible, set me on my feet.

I swayed slightly and his large hands spanned my waist to settle me.

He frowned down at me for a moment.

“You drive here?” he asked after a second.

I blinked away the stars in front of my vision. “Yeah, my bag,” I said slowly, realizing it was most likely still sling over the back of a chair.

To my utter astonishment, Hansen dangled my bag in front of me.

“You carried my bag?” I said in wonder. “The big, bad, macho biker carried my fringed and decidedly fabulous bag while carrying me?” I clarified. “Wow,” I said when his face stayed blank. “I’m surprised that it didn’t like… burst into flames on account of it not being able to be held by such a testosterone-infused creature.”

Hansen looked at me a moment and smiled slightly. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered to himself. “Keys, get them,” he continued, thrusting the bag at me.

I took it and got my keys, out of reflex. That was because Hansen’s face had an easy, almost amused look painted on it. His eyes were warm and concern danced underneath it. It was all for me.

I didn’t care if a head injury was responsible for these hallucinations, I was rolling with it.

He took them and directed me by the waist to my car. I looked longingly over my shoulder at his sleek Harley. My desire to ride pressed up against him almost trumped my thumping headache. Almost.

He unlocked the car and gently pushed me into the passenger seat. Still dumbstruck by his demeanor, I did this silently. He got into my car and I restrained a snort at how weird the big biker looked in my shitty car. How out of place.

“What are you doing?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

He looked over at me. “Seatbelt,” he commanded.

I ignored him. “Seriously, I’m feeling much better now. I can drive myself home, and you don’t have to subject yourself to the horror of driving something that isn’t your beautiful Harley.”

Crap. Did I just say beautiful Harley? I was a dork.

Hansen raised an eyebrow, and his eyes danced slightly. “Seatbelt,” he repeated, this time, his voice was lighter.

I complied, more out of embarrassment from my stupid mouth than anything else. Once I had done so, we reversed out of the lot.

“Macy,” he murmured, finally gaining my attention from the window. I’d really wanted to imprint every inch of him driving my car on my memory, but I refrained. It would only serve as torture when he went back to indifference.

“Next time I’m on my bike, only thing that’ll be making it beautiful, is the fact you’re on the back of it,” he informed me, his voice rough.

I succeeded in keeping my mouth shut at his words, but I didn’t succeed in masking my expression. Did that mean what I thought it meant? ‘Back of my bike’ was kind of a declaration in this world. One that I had dreamed Hansen coming out with. Maybe a head injury made me imagine things. He couldn’t seriously be saying this. Not after the actions that had bruised my soul. The ones that had communicated he wanted me as far away from the back of his bike as possible. Those words contradicted all of that and made my stomach jump.

He didn’t seem to require my answer because his attention went back to the road. We were silent for a while. Me, because I was trying to control my emotions and not let that feeling of warmth spread at that simple sentence. Too good to be true meant it probably was. I was an optimist but also a realist.

I finally noted our surroundings. Instead of taking the turn back into town, Hansen had followed the road that led out into the desert where houses were randomly dotted amongst the dry landscape.

“Um, this isn’t the way to my house,” I muttered.

Hansen’s eyes stayed on the road. “I know. We’re going to my place,” he declared.

I stared at his jaw. “Your place?” I almost squeaked.

He nodded.

Holy shit.





I fought the heaviness that seemed to be dragging down my eyelids. It hadn’t been long since Hansen had declared our destination, only about fifteen minutes, but the journey of the car and the desolate landscape seemed to serve as a sort of lullaby.

“Macy,” Hansen’s voice cut through the silence.

I jolted upright, my eyes blinking away the fuzziness.

His hand went to my jaw and turned it to face him. “Don’t fall asleep,” he commanded with concern.

I stared at him. “How much longer to your place?” I finally asked, when his hand dropped from my jaw and the moment was lost.

He nodded to a dirt road to our left and the car slowed down. “’Bout a minute.”

We traveled down the road, and a small but well-kept house was illuminated by his headlights, the sun just starting to disappear. It had a flat roof and was light brown, the clay-like outside similar to many houses around here. It surprised me.

“This is your place?” I asked as we parked in front of a garage.

“Yep,” he replied.

“Doesn’t your bike get dirty, traveling down that road?” I nodded my head in the direction we had just come.

He looked at me a moment, a strange expression on his face. Then he shook his head and got out of the car. I took that as my cue to follow suit. Being vertical so abruptly made the ground seem to sway, so I steadied myself on the car. Before I knew it, Hansen’s hands were around me, lifting me into his arms.