“It’s forty minutes.”
“So let’s ride.” Hair falls across my forehead and I push it away, noticing her eyes following my fingers. That warm feeling hits my chest again. She acts like she isn’t interested, but . . .
“Forty minutes turns into ten,” I add, praying I don’t sound desperate. I’m not, except for maybe when she bites her lower lip like that. Possibly.
“No.”
“Then I’ll walk with you.”
Wick backs up. I follow. “No,” she says.
Are you always this difficult? Not the right question. I stifle a sigh. “Why not?”
“Because your bike’s here.”
“So?” I take a step closer. This time, she doesn’t retreat, and suddenly I see how I’m going to convince her. I try really hard not to smile. “I’ll get it later.”
“If it’s even still here.” Wick’s looking at me like I’m the world’s most gigantic tool, and I have to struggle not to laugh. “You should know how easy it is to steal those things,” she continues. “I mean, all someone would need is a van and two guys to just pick it up and . . .”
Wait for it. Waaaiiittt.
Wick snaps to attention and glares at me.
Got you. I grin. “Exactly. So you should just say yes and save me from getting my bike stolen. Come on.”
I take a risk and turn my back on her, heading for the bike. For a second, there’s nothing and I think she isn’t coming and this isn’t working . . . and then I hear her—sneakers dragging on the pavement. She’s following me.
I can’t believe I actually won a round with this girl.
“You like it?” I swing one leg over the Honda and pass her the extra helmet I carry. Wick eyeballs it like the thing’s going to bite her.
“Yeah, it’s a cool bike.” She tugs on the helmet and buckles the strap, eyes traveling over the gas tank and handlebars as my eyes travel over her, catch on her hands. They’re still shaking.
“It’s a different-looking bike though,” Wick continues and, if I hadn’t noticed her hands, I’d think she sounds fine. “You don’t see many Hondas like this around.”
I grin. Technically, noticing the bike’s a Honda is a pretty small thing, but it always amazes me how many girls describe vehicles as “the blue one” or “the gray one.” Wick doesn’t and I like her more for it.
“No, it’s vintage. Everyone around here goes for Harleys, but this is a 1978 Honda CB400. My dad and I stripped it down to be a café racer.”
Wick smiles, hands drifting to my shoulders before she slides in behind me. The contact’s brief and sends me instantly straight.
Wick stiffens, wiggling away from me and putting space between us. Without looking back, I hook my arm around her, tug her close, and, for a beat, we both freeze. She fits so perfectly against me I almost can’t breathe.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Um, yeah.” Her hand scrabbles around. If she’s looking for handholds, she’s out of luck. The bike doesn’t have any.
Which means she’ll have to hold on to me.
Only she isn’t.
“So how did you know where I live anyway?” Wick asks, voice a little high and reedy. I’ve heard the tone before, and there’s something about it that makes me think she’s only barely holding it together. “How did you know which window was mine the other night?”
Careful here. “I know a lot about you.” I make sure to sound light as I step down on the gas and the engine cranks.
I shift us into first gear, coasting the bike forward and waiting for Wick to loop her arms around me. I glance back, grin.
Her face goes bright pink. “You ‘know a lot’ about me? Stalk much, Griffin?”
I grin wider. This back-and-forth thing we do . . . “I like it when you’re mean. Don’t be a chicken, Wick. Hold on to me.”
“Right. Like you scare me.” One small hand eases along my hip, brushes across my stomach, and suddenly I can’t breathe again.
I hold still, letting Wick’s arms settle against me. Then she shifts closer and I gun us forward, shooting the bike into the street. She tenses at the first corner, but by the time we’re to the main road, her arms and hands have loosened.
Her chin fits into my shoulder and I feel every gasp as we weave through the cars, but she never asks me to slow down. Then again, I guess she wouldn’t. Everything with this girl is a fight.
It makes it so much better now that I’m winning.
11
By the time we get to the first intersection light, Wick’s feeling bold enough to sit up and look around. There are guys in a minivan checking her out on one side of us and a cop on the other. She tucks closer to me, cheek pressing between my shoulder blades. She’s facing the minivan losers again, and judging by their expressions, she’s glaring them down.