Shimmy Bang Sparkle(9)

Take me right now. A shiver ran from my tush to my fingertips. “Got it.”

He placed his hand on the roll bar of my Jeep, caging me in. He moved his eyes over my face, then down to my cleavage, before moving back up to my eyes again. The anticipation was literally killing me, and I planted my palm on the side mirror for support. “I’m ready.”

“Favorite food?”

“Indian,” I gasped, and sucked in a deep breath.

He beamed and let out a soft laugh, like he liked that answer a lot. “Let me take you out for tikka masala and a few beers.”

Be still my heart! It was banging so hard that I could feel it in my ears. It had nothing to do with tikka masala, either. Or beer. Being near him was like being on the downhill on a roller coaster. Whooooosh, and all the butterflies in my stomach took off at once.

I was just about to give him an enthusiastic Yes, please! when Mr. Bozeman’s voice came from inside the house, jolting me out of all this dinner-date flirtation. “Stella! That guy giving you trouble? Need a hand? Want my slingshot?”

“No trouble at all!” I called back to Mr. Bozeman, without looking away from Nick. Never in my life had a man looked at me with such unfiltered desire. But before we could saunter off to enjoy Indian food, there was still a little bit of work to be done. Of the heavy lifting variety. “He was just about to help me move the oxygen compressor,” I said loudly right in Nick’s face, so that Mr. Bozeman could hear me. Then I said more softly, “Weren’t you?”

For the first time, he really smiled. It was breathtaking—the most heart-stopping contrast to his tough exterior. It was a great big, warm, sincere, eye-crinkling grin. He stepped back, head slightly bent, long lashes brushing his cheeks. “Yep, I sure was.”

“Then we’re on for dinner,” I said, clutching my phone to my chest again and still steadying myself on my car. My drawbridge was down. He’d breached my walls. And I didn’t mind a bit. “Just don’t forget to lift with your knees.”





4

NICK

Lift with your knees isn’t just a goddamned expression. Somewhere between growling out a macho, “I’ve got this, Stella, I’ve got this,” and walking the compressor forward one wheel at a time over the shag carpet, my lower back said, You’re such an asshole. So now, as I slung my leg over my bike, a muscle on my left flank puckered and shivered, like a rubber band about to snap. From the inside of the house, Mr. Bozeman yelled, “Thanks, son!” He waved through the picture window. “Appreciate it!”

“Anytime,” I answered as I stuck my key in the ignition. Provided I’m out of traction by then.

Stella picked up Priscilla, and they kissed cheeks like two European women saying goodbye after having an espresso. She shut the front door carefully, making sure the latch caught. She smoothed her shirt and her hair; her tee was so thin, I could see the lacy texture of her bra. Somehow, I managed to swallow my groan. She headed down the gravel walkway and reached into her purse for her keys. But before she got to her car, I told her, “Hop on,” and handed her my helmet, keeping my abs super tight when I leaned forward. I was gonna need some of that Advil she’d offered me earlier, and I was gonna need it fast.

Her eyes widened, and her pretty pink lips parted. “No way.”

“Unless you want to get delivery,” I told her, sticking my hands into my leather gloves. “Because I’d totally be down with that.”

She clutched my helmet to her chest. It made her boobs spill out of her shirt enough to make me forget everything I was going to say. “You don’t waste any time.”

“Nope,” I said, and kicked her into gear, revving the engine. “So let’s go.”

Still, though, she held on to the helmet. I hadn’t seen her be tentative or unsure when she stole the ring or when I tracked her down. Now there was a shimmer of fear in those deep blue beauties. I killed the engine, and everything went quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re a motorcycle virgin.”

She nibbled the inside of her cheek and smiled at the ground. She seemed embarrassed, and I liked that too—putting her on her back foot. Knocking her off her guard. “Possibly.”

“Put the helmet on,” I told her. “Get on, and hang on to me with everything you’ve got. Think you can do that?”

She took a few hesitant steps toward me, eyeing my Ducati like it was some wild animal. Then her eyes fell to the ground and she wiggled her toes, making her sneakers lift off the gravel. “Shouldn’t I have boots?”

Her. In motorcycle boots. Goddamn it. “Last time I checked, the Crown Prince of India was four blocks away, and I swear to Jesus I won’t let you get hurt.”

She put the helmet over her head, and I flipped up the visor for her. The helmet was too big on her, but it’d have to do. Plus, she looked utterly cute as fuck. “Promise?” she said into the mouthpiece.

I straightened it on her head so she could see better. “Promise.”

Carefully she placed a hand on my shoulder. It was sweet and gentle, like she didn’t know what to do with me yet. But I sure as hell knew what I wanted to do with her, and gentle was not part of the plan. I clapped my hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “Hang on. Tight.”

“’K.” Her knees took their place on either side of my hips.