The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(36)

“She didn’t take it well?” he asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.

“I’m not sure how to answer that question. She thinks my therapist is wrong, that I’m wrong. And maybe I am. I don’t know anymore.” I hold my palms out and drop them to my sides as a sense of heaviness weighs me down.

He frowns at me for a second before looking at my living room over my shoulder. “Do you want to get out for a bit? Take a walk or something? Fresh air usually helps me feel better.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. Aside from what I have to do for transportation purposes, I’m not much of a walker. Or jogger. Or any kind of exerciser. But it’s been days since I’ve been out, and I don’t mind the idea.

I step into my ballet slippers, which are neatly arranged in the entryway, lock the door, and follow him out of my building. The sky is darkening and it’s a bit chilly, but I don’t go back for a sweater or coat. I don’t expect us to be out long.

When we walk past a black motorcycle parked next to the curb, I ask, “Yours?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Want to go for a ride? I promise to be careful.”

I fumble with a response. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before. I’ve never wanted to because Priscilla thinks it’s a foolish thing to do. According to her, anyone who gets injured while riding was basically asking for it and shouldn’t be surprised when they get brain damage.

Before I can answer, he aims a carefree smile at me and says, “I was just asking. Don’t feel pressured.”

He walks past the motorcycle, but I grab his arm to stop him and quickly say, “No, I want to. I’m just a little nervous.”

“You sure? I won’t be sad if we don’t. Really.”

“I’m sure,” I say. Priscilla isn’t here to judge me. More important, I’m tired of the never-ending and fruitless battle to earn her approval. It’s brought me misery more than anything else, and right now, I want to give in and see what it’s like not to fight so hard. On my last night with this wonderful, completely wrong-for-me man, I want to do something memorable.

“Okay, but just tell me if you want us to stop, and I will,” he says.

As he settles the extra helmet he brought onto my head and clips it under my chin, I smile up at him—a real smile. I am nervous, but I’m also strangely energized. He said he’d be careful, and I trust him. Before climbing onto the bike, he hesitates, takes his jacket off, and settles it over my shoulders.

“Just in case,” he says.

I’m about to protest, but the jacket is deliciously warm and it smells like him. I thread my arms into the sleeves and pull the front portion over my nose, so I can breathe in his scent. “Are you sure you don’t need it?”

“Nah, my temperature runs hot. I’m good.” He zips me up and nods with satisfaction, and I laugh awkwardly as I wiggle my arms, making the too-big sleeves flap like wings.

“I must look pretty funny like this.”

“You look perfect.” To prove it, he leans in and kisses me on the lips. It’s a short kiss, but it goes to my head anyway. His lips are cool, his breath warm. When he pulls away, it takes me a moment to reorient myself, and he grins as he rolls one of his jacket sleeves up to my wrist.

“I can do this myself,” I say, not used to people helping me with something like this—or anything, really.

He simply shakes his head and continues working on the other sleeve. “I like to.”

That’s a novel concept to me. In the world unique to my workaholic, success-driven family, self-sufficiency is key. I vividly remember a time when I was sick during grade school. My dad handed me a Tylenol bottle and instructed me to read the directions as he rushed out the door to catch a flight for a business trip, leaving me to manage my fever on my own. I was old enough that it wasn’t illegal to be home alone (I think), and clearly, I managed just fine. But I lost something that day. Or maybe I just grew up. I don’t know.

What I do know is that right now, as Quan does this trivial thing for me, I feel downright spoiled. And I love it.

He puts his own helmet on, climbs onto the motorcycle, and motions for me to join him. “Put your feet here and wrap your arms around my waist.”

Once I’m behind him, holding on tightly, excitement, both good and bad, rushes through my veins. It’s like I have carbonation in my blood.

“Ready?” he asks, looking back at me over his shoulder.

I nod, and he smiles at me and revs the engine.

My stomach dips as we pull away from the curb, and every muscle in my body tenses. There’s nothing between me and the giant metal vehicles hurtling down the street. I can feel the wind on my legs, on my hands, on my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut as terror seizes me. If the end is coming, I don’t want to see it.

The end doesn’t come, though. Not in a minute. Not in two, three, four, or five. The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

Even though I understand I could still get in an accident at any moment, my fear recedes, and I open my eyes. It’s too much to take in at first. We’re going fast, and the world around me is a blur. But eventually, I catch my breath, and my heartbeat slows a notch.

The city is alive. Streetlights shine, taillights blink, a cloud of exhaust from a passing truck washes over my face. Somehow everything is sharper, brighter.