An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(20)

He glances at it. His lips twitch with something that could become a smile if he happened to be anyone else on the planet, and then he moves in to take it from my outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

“Any time, boss.” When I curve toward my car, pleased, Cal walks up to his motorcycle instead and reaches for the helmet. I slow my pace as the scene processes. “Oh, are we driving separately?” I wonder from a few feet away.

“No.”

That’s all he says.

Blinking a handful of times, I watch as he just stands there, holding the helmet in my direction, as if I’m supposed to take it and wear it.

On my head.

Because he wants me to ride on his motorcycle.

“Cal, no,” I contest, my blood pressure snowballing. Glancing down at my ripped skinny jeans, I curse myself for not wearing a dress. I always wear dresses. If I’d worn a dress, I’d have a viable excuse for not getting on the bike, other than, “That looks terrifying.” My heart thumps with fear as I glide over to him. “I’m fine driving.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

“First time for everything.” He shrugs, his eyebrows lifting like he’s wondering what I’m waiting for.

I’m waiting for the terror to pass so my legs can become functional limbs again. “What about your helmet?”

“I’m good. We’re not going far.”

I nod wildly.

Okay. This is super fine. Even if we crash, it’ll probably be minor, and I’ll have a helmet. And Cal has such an impressive muscle ratio that he basically has built-in protective armor.

I’ve convinced myself that I won’t be dying today, so I continue to nod as I close the gap between us and take the helmet from his hands. “Sure, okay. This will be great. Really great,” I ramble, plopping the helmet over my head and scrambling for the fastener.

“I got it,” Cal intervenes.

He steps into my bubble smelling like clean, woody bath soap and a trace of mint, his body heat a warm juxtaposition to his frosty demeanor. All my breath gets caught in my throat when calloused fingers graze my jaw to secure the chin strap, his eyes briefly tangling with mine before he clasps it into place, pops the visor down, and steps away.

The helmet feels giant, and my equilibrium wobbles. “I’m pretty sure I look like Toadstool from Mario,” I decide.

Cal gives me a onceover, staring at my painted toenails poking out through my heels, raking over my legs sheathed in tattered denim, lingering on the tangerine tank top, and landing at the helmet. “You look good,” he murmurs. Turning around, he moves toward the motorcycle.

Casual indifference rolls off of him as he situates himself on the bike, and I almost miss the compliment.

“Hop on,” he continues as he straddles the seat. “Sit close to me so you can mirror my body language. When I turn, you turn with me. Try not to wiggle too much or shift abruptly. Wrap your arms around my waist and hold on. Don’t be afraid to hang on tight—you won’t hurt me.”

I try to take mental notes, but it feels like he’s listing off Einstein’s Written Demands, and all I hear is “wiggle.” “Got it. Great.” Sliding my bottom lip between my teeth, I stroll forward and lift my leg, mounting the back of the seat with little grace. I latch onto Cal before I topple instantly, inching closer to him and digging my knees into his hips. “Is this okay?”

My fingers are loosely curled around the fabric of his shirt, so he snatches both of my wrists and forces my arms around his torso until I’m pressed into him, my breasts smashed against the planks of his back and my palms locking at his abdomen.

I choke on a breath, feeling tingly all over.

Giving me a look over his shoulder, he says, “Hang onto me.”

Electricity zips through me at Cal’s proximity and the prospect of the ride. I squeeze him as tight as I can as he kicks the bike into gear and drives us out of the parking lot. The moment we gain speed, a feeling of exhilaration washes over me, replacing the fear. I’m almost certain we’re going one hundred miles per hour, but the speed limit says twenty-five, so I try to relax and focus on the adrenaline spiraling through me.

Street signs zoom past.

Other vehicles are nothing but a blur.

The late summer breeze causes goosebumps to scatter across my skin.

My thighs clench around him, my right hand latched onto my left wrist as I cling. I want to laugh, or sing, or cry, my lungs burning to release something.

I feel free.

But Cal was right—we didn’t go far, and we turn into an auto parts store hardly five minutes later, shuffling off the bike and heading inside.

The visit is uneventful. Cal talks to a greasy-haired guy at the front desk about special-ordering a specific part for a Land Rover, while I meander the aisles that host shelves filled with timing belts, engine mounts, driveshafts, and spark plugs.

I’m engrossed in a variety of steering wheel covers when Cal eventually ushers me out the door. “That’s it? You’re done?” I wonder, scrunching up my nose, curious as to why he wanted me to tag along on such a brief errand.

“I was thinking we could grab lunch next door.”

I blink, blindly following him.

A trickling of nerves work their way through me, considering most days, Cal acts like he’d rather dive face-first into a sticker bush that caught on fire than be within ten feet of me.