Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(29)

Except, if she fell right now, she had the oddest feeling Red wouldn’t let her hit the ground.

She took off her glasses, turning his face into a pretty haze of pale cream and red-gold. “I’m in.”

“Good.” She could hear the grin in his voice. While she shoved on the helmet, he put her glasses … somewhere. The fact that she didn’t know exactly where, and didn’t really care, was testament to her new footloose and fancy-free attitude. She’d been right about her plan, about her list: the process of completing each task involved multiple adjustments in attitude and countless bite-sized moments of bravery, and those would all add up. By the time she finished, she’d have more than check marks and a few stories to tell.

She’d have a life.

The world beneath the helmet was strange and insulated, and her lack of sight didn’t help, but Red talked to her. Like he knew she’d need some kind of guiding light, some reassurance. He said, “I’m touching you now,” and then he did. His hands began fiddling with her helmet, adjusting it until it felt more comfortable. Then he zipped up her jacket. The action was brisk, over in a second, but it felt weirdly intimate in a way that made her stomach dip.

Which was silly. So, so silly. Who cared if he’d zipped up her coat? That was something parents did for their children. Clearly, he thought of her as a child. Which annoyed her on multiple levels, a few of which she didn’t feel comfortable examining right now.

He, of course, was completely unaffected throughout her mental debate. “All you need to do,” he said, with his typical mix of easygoing authority, “is keep your feet on the rests and hold on to me. I’ll get on first and hit the throttle. It’s loud. Don’t freak out.”

Apparently, despite witnessing her Lara Croft–like tree climbing the other day, he still thought she was the sort of woman who needed to be warned about loud noises. Depressingly, he was right.

He straddled the bike, and she wondered absently if he might be persuaded to straddle her. Purely so that she could cross item number five, meaningless sex, off of her list. She dismissed that rogue thought instantly, however; Redford wasn’t a suitable candidate. Aside from the fact that his hotness was vaguely terrifying, she couldn’t sleep with men who were clients, or men who lived just across the courtyard, or men who already knew certain things about her health and would therefore nervously reject all advances as if her vaginal canal were made of glass.

The bike roared to life like an angry lioness. She managed not to jump and was very proud of herself.

“Get on,” Red told her.

She held her skirt down awkwardly as she swung one leg over the chrome beast. And then, there she was, sitting casually on a motorbike. It thrummed, huge and hot and weighty, between her thighs. And right in front of her was Redford, his back looking extraordinarily broad in black leather. She wasn’t sure if she was intimidated or aroused. She checked in with her nether regions and discovered that she was both. Righto, then.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Red’s long, strong fingers wrapped around her calf and she almost fainted. He squeezed and something inside her clenched. Okay, not “something”: her pussy. Good Lord. Then she realized abruptly that he was trying to tell her something. Right, yes, she was paying attention. She was a Very Good Chloe and she was taking this Extremely Seriously.

Gosh, his hands were big.

“Right there,” he shouted, and squeezed her calf, and let go. Boo. But at least she understood what he meant: Keep your feet where they are, right on those convenient little rest things I mentioned. As if she’d forget. She’d be following his disgracefully minimal instructions to the letter, thank you very much.

Then he reached back, caught one of her hands, and pulled. Next message, presumably: Hold on to me. He didn’t need to remind her of that, either; she’d watched enough teen romance films to know how one behaved on the back of a hot guy’s motorbike. She committed fully, shuffling closer to wrap her arms around his waist, lacing her fingers over his taut abs. She’d seen those abs naked. He wouldn’t be giving her a ride if he knew that, now would he?

Guilt whirled in her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous and extremely evil. It was wrong of her, to let him treat her so nicely when she knew he had reason to despise her—actual reason, rather than misunderstandings and awkwardness. She should confess. She had to. It was the right thing to do.

“Ready?” he shouted.

Not in the slightest. “Ready.”

The engine growled. The world began to move. She reflected that her god-awful guilt had been a blessing in disguise because it had distracted her from reasonable concerns about her impending doom. Her stomach lurched even though she knew they were only going five miles per hour, because that was the car park’s speed limit and Red was a very good and rule-abiding superintendent. Under her breath, beneath a helmet that was suddenly far too small, dark, and hot, she murmured, “It’s only five miles per hour. It’s only five miles per hour. It’s only—”

They turned out of the car park and the bike shot forward like a bullet.

“Good Lord,” she shrieked at the top of her voice. She hadn’t thought she could get any closer to Red, but she was now in danger of crawling into his skin. Her grip on his waist had become more of an “iron bar” situation. He probably felt like he’d been strapped into an electric chair on death row. She felt like she’d been strapped into an electric chair on death row, because anything that made her unprotected human body move as quickly as this was clearly a death sentence, and she couldn’t exactly escape by throwing herself off, now could she?