Taking Connor(39)

“It’s hot out here,” I reply lamely.

“It’s not that hot,” he replies with a grin.

“You know Colorado has no helmet laws,” I point out, hoping to change the subject.

“And anyone who rides without one is a f*cking idiot,” he mumbles.

“True,” I agree.

After he finishes with the strap, he taps my nose with his index finger. He turns and climbs on his bike, hitting the kickstand. The muscles in his arms flex as he mans the bike and I decide I really like motorcycles. After a moment, the Harley roars to life, and he steadies it to one side, looking at me. “Use this little step and climb on.”

With a deep breath, I follow his instructions and climb on, scooting myself forward so that my body is flush with his. His hands reach around, grabbing mine and pulling them around his firm mid-section. “Hold on tightly to me, okay?”

“Okay,” I shout over the engine. He walks the bike back, turning it around and then slowly takes it down the driveway letting the weight create a momentum that makes us roll.

At the bottom, he turns his head and smiles. “I think you’re going to love this.” Then, he opens the throttle on the bike, and we take off. I didn’t realize my strength until this moment. I don’t think I’ve ever held anyone or anything so tightly in my life. I’m pretty sure I’m about to crack one of his ribs. The wind and the sound of the engine are loud, but they feel good. What I’m struggling with is the feeling of no control. I have no way to stop this bike myself. At any moment, we could veer off the road and go flying into the trees. When we come upon the first stop sign, Connor pats my hand, before resting his upon it and squeezing gently.

“I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” His words hit me. I believe him. And just like that, my hold weakens a little, and I inhale deeply through my nose. Well, that was a mistake. He smells like hot, dirty, sex. Why, oh why does he have to be so . . . everything? I mean, couldn’t he have been like some thugged out misfit with missing teeth? No, of course not. He just had to be the incredibly hot, kind, good and bad combo with tattoos.

By the time we make it to the restaurant, I’ve calmed down a bit. When I climb off the bike, I can’t help first rubbing my cheeks, then my ass. They’re both numb.

Connor laughs as he pulls off his helmet. “You’re just not use to it yet. We’ll have to ride more often.”

He helps me undo the strap of my helmet, and I run my fingers through my tangled hair. Note to self: Tie hair back next time on the back of a bike. We walk into the Sandbox, a cool little place that serves the best wings and has some form of live music every night. They also have six pool tables in the back. I’ve only been here twice, with Lexi, but I love the atmosphere. I wonder if she’ll meander in tonight.

“You want to grab a table and eat or would you rather play some pool first and have a drink?”

I am a little hungry, but a game of pool sounds fun. “You rack ’em,” I tell him. “You’re about to get your ass kicked.”

He snorts out a laugh, his eyes wide with mirth. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?” We’ve just reached the pool table, and he’s already signaling for our server to bring us balls so we can set up.

I cross my arms. “A bet?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Just a friendly bet between neighbors.

“What’d you have in mind?”

He reaches around and scratches the back of his neck, his bicep bulging as he does. Has he been working out since he’s been home? But where? “You owe me five dinners if I win?”

I laugh. “Joke’s on you. I’m a terrible cook.”

“Not in my book,” he argues as our waitress approaches with the balls. He orders a whiskey neat, and I decide I better stick with beer.

“So what do I get if I win?” I ask after our server has scurried off to fill our order.

“What do you want?”

I twist my mouth as I think about this. I’m definitely going to win. I’m awesome at pool. I better make it something good. “You have to cook me five dinners.”

He gives me a ‘Really’ look.

“That’s right, Mr. Stevens. Five dinners. One really should be duck with plum sauce.”

Smiling he counters, “Does it count if I take you out for dinner?”

“Is alcohol included?”

“Yes,” he answers as he chalks his pool stick.

“I’ll accept those terms.”

“Alright, your cockiness. You have to win first,” he jests.

“It’s in the bag,” I reply confidentially, chalking my pool stick.

“I like a woman with a little competitiveness in her.”

We play four games. I win them all. Connor is really good, though, and he came close to beating me a few times.

“Damn. Where’d you learn to play like that?” he asks as we place our pool sticks on the rack on the wall. “I think I’ll have to start calling you dead-eye.”

“High school. Dated a guy whose father owned a pool hall. It closed down a few years back.”

“I’m impressed.” Then he frowns in thought. “I think I was just hustled.”

“Definitely not,” I feign offense. “I told you I was good. And I fully intend to collect my reward,” I warn, pointing a firm finger at him. “And you have to cook at least some of the meals.”