Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(107)

He couldn’t wait to show it to her.

For the first time in Cain’s life—the very first time—he felt like he had something worthy of Miss Ginger McHuid, and although he had no expectations, he’d be crushed if she didn’t like it.

And that was the God’s honest truth.

***

Ginger had never ridden on a motorcycle before, and at first she was uncomfortable, in an embarrassed way, pressed up against Cain so intimately. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for her to close her eyes and relax, relishing the contact and enjoying the ride.

Relish, not because she had any designs on Cain—she wasn’t stupid enough to fall for him again, nor did she feel herself available—but it simply felt nice to hold on to him.

Once upon a time, she’d had a safe haven, a fiancé to whom she ran whenever she was sad or down or confused, and he would hold her close, kiss her and hug her, give her unlimited comfort and unconditional affection. For weeks now she hadn’t been touched very much by anyone. At first she’d been deliberately housebound, but then, even as she came out of her self-imposed shell little by little, there just weren’t that many people in her life who kissed and hugged. Her parents weren’t affectionate, and her gran didn’t have enough muscle control to embrace her anymore. Her safe, warm harbor was gone. And she missed the physical contact. She missed it desperately.

So she held on fiercely to Cain, resting her cheek against his leather jacket and feeling the tight muscles of his stomach clench and release as they zigged into turns and zagged through valleys. She closed her eyes and held on and basked in the warmth of human contact.

When he finally stopped the motorcycle, it took her a moment to open her eyes, and once she did, it took another moment to realize that she needed to unclasp her hands and let go of him. An audible sigh of regret passed through her lips like a whisper, but she hoped he hadn’t heard it, and she tried to comfort herself that she’d get to hold on to him again all the way home.

“You okay, princess?” he asked over his shoulder, his voice gentle.

She reached up for the helmet he’d fastened under her chin and unclasped it, pulling it from her head as he dismounted from the bike and offered her his hand.

“Uh-huh. Where are we?” she asked, letting him help her off the saddle.

His eyes sparkled in the darkness—pools of obsidian outlined in light blue. He tugged her hand, and they walked out from under a garage roof and onto the sidewalk, under the stars.

“Turn around,” he said.

She did. And she gasped softly when her eyes found the bright white sign over the garage that read “Wolfram’s Motorcycles.” She blinked twice, taking in the double-bayed, open garage they’d just walked from and the shiny glass of the adjacent showroom. The floor inside was gray and glossy, and five or six motorcycles gleamed in the bright blue and white fluorescent track lighting that shone down from the showroom ceiling.

“Cain,” she murmured.

“What do you think?” he asked from beside her.

She looked up to find him staring down at her, his face expectant but uncertain, his eyes searching.

“It’s yours?”

He nodded. “Uh-huh. All mine. My own business.”

“But I thought . . .”

I thought you were leavin’.

Suddenly her eyes filled with more tears than she could handle, and she dropped her head and looked down at her shoes. It was basic and visceral, the feeling that swept through her like a flash storm. Relief. She was so relieved, so unbelievably relieved, she almost couldn’t breathe.

“You don’t like it,” he said softly, his voice low, edged in hurt.

She shook her head, pressing her palm to her chest, unable to speak.

“Huh. Well. I guess motorcycles aren’t for everyone.” He stopped talking and dropped her hand. “Fuck,” he hissed. “I’ll take you home.”

As he started to move away, she grabbed his arm, her fingers viselike around his wrist as she raised her glassy eyes to his.

“I’m so proud of you,” she sobbed. “So damn proud.”

His face was transformed by her words. Hurt and angry at first, he furrowed his brow in confusion as he stared at her, and when he had confirmed the truth of her words from looking deep into her eyes, his dimples sprang out at her, and his smile—so wide, so happy—was blinding.

He laughed softly, shaking his head at her. “I thought . . . oh, man, I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I don’t,” she whispered. “I love it.”

“You love it?” he asked, looking down at his wrist still captured in her hand before sliding his eyes back to her face.

“You’re stayin’,” she said, her eyes locked on his.

He nodded. “I’m stayin’, Gin.” He reached forward with his free hand and gently wiped a falling tear from her cheek. Then he adjusted her grip on his wrist so they were holding hands, and he pulled her back up the driveway. “Come and see!”

She smiled and nodded at all the right places as he gave her a tour of his new business. And truly she was proud of him. He had a sort of rustic-industrial thing going on that worked well with his motorcycles—rough-hewn wood walls, gleaming gray floors, funky lighting on modern tracks, and tin signs with motorcycle logos and neon lights decorating the walls.