“I’m Saylor.”
“I know,” I tell her, and the look on her face says she might have already known that I did my research.
“I know I don’t know you, but I feel like I do.” I know exactly what she means, but I don’t tell her that. I just stare at her, willing her to speak again, so I can add that voice to my dreams. “I remember you.” Her admission doesn’t surprise me. But now I’m curious about how much she remembers and how much she knows.
As if she can see straight through me, she tells me exactly what I’m wanting to hear. “You helped me change my tire. I was scared of you that night. Just one look at your vest and I immediately stereotyped you.” She motions toward my cut with her hand. As if I couldn’t remember what it said, I look down at it. The 1% patch over my heart glares back at me, reminding me of who I am. I wonder if Saylor has done her research on me like I did on her. If she has, then this won’t go much further than it already has.
“Say my name,” I demand, wanting to hear how it sounds on her lips before she realizes what a bad idea this is and runs off. My eyes move to her mouth. I want to memorize the way it looks when her full, pink lips poke out to pronounce my name.
“Dirk.” And it’s perfect. I want to tell her to say it again, but she does so without my command. It’s like she can read my thoughts, and I immediately try to clear my head of anything that might offend her. “Is there room for two on that thing?” She’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest and when she nods her head toward my bike, the never-ending strands of wild, curly hair move, and the wind catches the scent and carries it straight to my nostrils at the same moment I inhale.
Motherfucker.
Her hair smells fresh like citrus. Like oranges and lemons and shit. Not like hairspray and all those fucking hair care products, but natural and clean. I feel the saliva building in my mouth.
“There’s room,” I say shortly. I don’t like to talk. I want to listen and I want her to tell me everything. And I want to smell her. I want to smell her hair and her neck and kiss the parts of her body other men didn’t care about or appreciate. Like the crease at her elbow, or behind her knee. I watch her walk toward me until she is standing so close that I nearly take a step back out of habit.
“Dirk,” she says, my name coming out of her mouth on a whisper, and I inhale her breath and let it coat the back of my throat. “I just need to get out of here.” Her eyes are pleading. They search mine, and I watch as they move back and forth in her head, looking for something from me. They are incredible. She is so close that I can see the thin brown circles that outline her bright green eyes. Green seems too simple of a word to describe them. Emerald isn’t much better, but the word suits not only the color, but the delicacy of them.
She notices my uneasiness. She can see the question in my eyes, the one that asks, Why the hell do you want to get on the back of a bike with a guy like me? Most women would do it because bad boys are appealing to them. It would be a thrill to throw all their inhibitions to the wind. But Saylor needs me for another reason.
“I’m not scared of you, Dirk. Even if there was something left in this life that could scare me, it wouldn’t be you. You’ve always been my savior. You may not know it, but you always show up just when I need you most. You’re like my angel. And right now, I need you.”
“I’m no angel.” The word seems to lose some of its meaning by just being spoken out loud by me. It would have an entirely different definition if it actually applied to me.
“Please.” She’s begging me for understanding. She’s asking me for help. And I don’t know why I’m still standing here trying to talk myself out of it. Isn’t this more than I could have expected? More than a man like me deserves?
I hand her my helmet, which fits after all her hair is shoved inside it. To hell with the reasons. She told me she needed me, and right now, there is nothing else I’d rather do than give her whatever it is she needs.
The only seat I have is on the fender. My bike is not equipped for a passenger, but I make it work by wrapping her legs around my waist. The feel of her body is warm against mine, sending my senses into overdrive. Her scent, the feel of her wrapped around me . . . I’ve never experienced anything like it. And soon, I’m speeding off into the wind, letting it bear the weight of both our problems and letting the road lead us somewhere other than here.
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