“Is that your number?”
His hand glides down my arm to wrap around my fingers. “Yeah.”
“Most people just put numbers in their contacts.”
“Good point.” He caps the Sharpie, vanishing it back into a pocket, and then holds out a hand. “Phone.”
Not giving it to him doesn’t even occur to me. I pull it out of my purse and hand it over. And then when he taps the screen and looks at me, I type in my passcode. His arm comes around me and he snaps a picture of us.
“What should I call myself in your contacts?” He bends his head over my phone, fingers flying. I didn’t know adding a contact was such a multistep process, but whatever. I like watching him. Beautiful doesn’t cover it.
“Vik,” I say, and he makes a face.
“I should have one of those couples’ nicknames. Like peaches or love muffin or big daddy. Christen me now.”
The giggle flies out of my mouth like some kind of freakish exploding alien baby. I don’t giggle. I’m a mature woman with a career, responsible for millions of dollars of other people’s money.
I expect him to give the phone back. He doesn’t. He starts snapping pictures of other bikers, adding them to my contacts list.
“I’m curious, Vik. What am I going to need them for? Body disposal?”
He shrugs and slips my phone back into my purse. “Do whatever needs doing. My old man is gonna love you, though. Can’t wait for you to meet him.”
Say. What?
“That sounds like a pretty big step.”
He presses a kiss against the black rose he’s drawn on my skin. “When you know, you know, right? And we’ve got something, babe.”
I reluctantly extricate my arm from his hold. I really shouldn’t let the crazy man fondle me, no matter how good it feels. “I’m sure your dad’s a lovely man.”
Vik purses his lips. “He can be difficult.”
“So he’s related to you,” I say drily.
Vik beams. “And he really, really wants me to settle down. It was kinda a surprise to me. We hadn’t talked in months, and then boom. He moves in with me because he’s lost his place and now he’s after me to find The One. I’m not big on planning, though, so we’re taking it one day at a time.”
I have no answer—just lots of questions. I start with the obvious. “The One?”
Vik hums a few bars of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Most guys aren’t big on settling down. I know this thanks to years of looking. Vik, however, looks amused rather than spooked.
“I don’t look good in white,” he confides. “And the jury’s out on diamonds.”
Ooookay. Next question.
“You didn’t speak? And now he’s living with you?”
We normal people plunge into family life a little more cautiously. Vik, however, apparently believes in doing everything at Mach Seven.
“I’m turning over a new leaf. Gonna need a new biker name.” His smile gets more mischievous, and my panties get correspondingly wetter. “The Saint.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll go by The Saint.” He practically bounces on his seat. Unless it’s opposite day, this man is about as far from sainthood as you can get.
Since there’s no point in disabusing him, I nod amicably. “That’s sweet of you.”
I haven’t met too many people who’d just up and move their dad in because he needed a place. Most people would just toss some cash at the problem—or ignore it. It’s a little embarrassing how smiley his protectiveness makes me feel. God, I’m so screwed here. There’s all this sexual tension between us and while I know it’s as temporary as a firefly, it feels good. Vik’s fun and he makes me feel fun. He’s just drunk and horny, a biker who does God knows what when he’s not inking equally drunk girls. I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket.
“I have to go,” I say, sliding off the barstool. Staying any longer would be stupid. I’ve come, I’ve seen and I’ve conquered the biker party. I can check one more wild thing off my bucket list.
Vik snags my hand, his fingers rubbing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. “Already?”
“Yes.” That sounds firm. That sounds like a woman who’s in charge of her life and the new direction it’s taken. Hanging out here any longer would be like trying to make a meal out of cotton candy at the fair. By the time you’d eaten enough to feel full, you’d be sick. Vik is pure sweet evil, and I need to be smart enough to walk away.
“Walk you out” is all he says before getting to his feet. His free hand skims my cheek before falling away, while the fingers braceleting my wrist slide down and tangle with mine until we’re holding hands. I take a moment to process that.
He prowls toward the door, which seems about as distant and as unattainable as the peak of the Himalayas. Every fourth step or so some new girl seems to detach herself from the dancing, drinking crowd and tries to attach herself to Vik. It’s yet more proof of why any attraction between us is doomed. No matter how pretty he is, I’m not into sharing. I’m more ménage à moi than ménage à trois. The girls climb him like a vine, rubbing and grinding and doing a million other sexy, dirty things I’ve never done even in the privacy of my own place. It’s both impressive and off-putting. Eventually, however, we make it to the door, where he shakes off a final admirer wearing an electric blue tube top as a dress.
He doesn’t apologize or acknowledge all the girls hanging on him. It’s possible he hasn’t even noticed them, that accessories with boobs and vaginas are just that common in the Vik-verse. Yuck. I step outside and inhale a clean, fresh,
