“It’s yours.”
I’m not entirely sure what, but I get the sense when a biker buys you a helmet it means something. My hands are shaking when I put it on my head and try to fasten the strap under my chin. Unsuccessfully. His steady hands brush mine aside and he tilts his head down to see what he’s doing. I notice his thick dark eyelashes, the slight bump on his nose, and the crease that runs down the center of his full bottom lip.
“There,” he mutters, as his eyes come up and lock on mine.
“Thank you.”
For a moment I think he might kiss me, but then he straightens up and I try to hide my frustration.
He hasn’t touched me since he kissed me in my office on Thursday. Not that he hasn’t had a chance; he’s been around enough. He waited around that night and followed me home on his bike again, watched me get inside, and drove off. Friday night he walked in around nine to see me home.
Same routine last night. Except last night, he’d called out to me to make sure to pack light. That resulted in a bit of an argument since I hadn’t clued in to the fact this would be an overnight trip. I don’t know why not, it makes sense it would be. I’ve had so much stuff going on, I just didn’t pay close enough attention, but that didn’t stop me from blaming Tse for tricking me.
That made him laugh and he told me, in no uncertain terms, when the time was right he wouldn’t need to trick me into bed. Then he drove off and I spent the night restlessly rolling in my bed, the implication of those words keeping me awake.
Then at eight this morning he was back in the driveway, smiling as if nothing was wrong, this time to pick me up.
The modest bag he told me to pack is already strapped to the back of the seat, which suddenly looks very small for the two of us. A change of clothes, a few toiletries, and at the last minute I stuffed a pair of winter pajamas in there that would cover me neck to ankle. I’m not sure what our sleeping arrangement will be, when I asked, Tse only said it was taken care of, but I don’t want to make assumptions or create expectations.
He confuses me.
When he swings a leg over the bike and shows me how to get on, I take a reinforcing breath and climb on behind him. We’re wedged tight, his hips cradled between my legs. It’s almost impossible not to be plastered against his broad back.
“Relax,” he coaxes over his shoulder, before reaching for my arms and pulling them around his waist.
Then he revs the engine—the vibrations shoot straight up through my body—and peels out of the driveway.
It’s a beautiful morning, but the first ten minutes while we’re weaving through city streets to get out of town, I barely notice. After we leave the city behind, though, I become aware of the sun on my shoulders, the fresh air, and the beautiful views as we slowly leave the mountains behind.
Tse rides at a decent clip but not ridiculously fast, and he handles his bike so easily, his confidence is starting to rub off on me. By the time we pass Mesa Verde, I’m feeling the last of the tension leaving my body.
We’re stopped at a traffic light in Cortez when he turns his head.
“Hungry?’
I didn’t manage much more than coffee and a slice of toast at six this morning when I was too wound up to sleep any more.
“I could eat.”
I figure he’ll stop somewhere in Cortez, but instead he turns onto a county road. After about ten minutes we pass through a quaint little town and on the other side, he pulls off to the left into the small parking lot of a place called Arlene’s Diner.
It’s Sunday morning, probably around nine o’clock, and the parking lot is full. Glancing in through the windows I notice the diner looks busy. I have my doubts we’ll be able to get a table, but Tse doesn’t appear deterred. He stores our helmets under the seat, grabs my hand, and leads me to the entrance.
We’ve barely crossed the threshold when I hear a loud woman’s voice call out his name.
“Oh hell, look what the cat dragged in.” The woman behind the counter is older—I’m guessing in her fifties—tall, with short blonde hair, and a scowl on her face. “Seb!” she yells over her shoulder and behind her a man steps out of what I assume is the kitchen.
Silver-streaked dark hair and arms covered in tattoos that would have Emme drooling, the guy—Seb, I take it—grins wide when he catches sight of Tse and makes his way around the counter. My hand is released so he can greet Seb with a man hug and bone-breaking slaps on the back, only to be grasped firmly in his again after.
“Been too long, brother,” Seb, who is dressed in a large white apron, voices.
“I know. Been busy.”
That’s when the man glances over at me, his grin widening.
“I see that.”
“Quit your drooling,” the blonde snaps, pouring two mugs of coffee. “You’re gonna get your bacon burned.”
Tse bursts out laughing as the other man turns his grin on the woman.
“You love my bacon and you know it, Arlene. Besides, you know I love only you.”
So she’s the owner of the place and maybe Seb is her husband?
“Whatever,” she huffs.
“Arlene, Seb, I’d like you to meet Sophia.” To me he says, “Arlene makes the best coffee and Seb does a killer breakfast griddle that makes you wanna come back.”
“Not bad enough, clearly,” Arlene mutters.
She tucks a couple of menus under her arm and grabs the two mugs as she moves around the far end of the counter. With a jerk of her head, she indicates for us to follow her.
“Never mind her,” Seb says with a smile. “It’s not you, she
