Page 5 of Journey

I glance at his hand. “Are you single, or do you have a ring tucked away somewhere?”

Journey stiffens as if I’ve offended him. “If I were taken, I wouldn’t be here hoping like hell that you’re gonna stop playing twenty questions and ask me to take you home.”

“Fair enough.”

“So?”

I pause for a moment, liking the back-and-forth banter with him. “What’s your favorite position?”

His lips tilt upward. “Whatever position gets you off.”

My pussy clenches with desperation, and I brush past him and head for the door. Glancing over my shoulder, I ask, “You comin’?”

I don’t bother waiting. He’ll follow.

As soon as I step outside, I move to my right and pull my cell out of my back pocket to send a quick text to Leah to let her know I’m leaving.

“I’m this way.”

My gaze whips to Journey, and his thumb is hitched over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m gonna drive myself,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I rattle off my address and continue to my car. Ten minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of my apartment building, and Journey is behind me on his Harley.

“Nice place,” Journey comments after I get out of my car.

I look around at our surroundings, taking in where I live and trying to see it from his perspective. The smell from the overflowing dumpster pollutes the air, and the piles of broken furniture are an eyesore. The building itself is rundown, as are the vehicles filling the lot.

I face Journey and smirk. “Not a fan of liars.”

He chuckles, and the deep rumble renews the lust he evoked back at the bar. “How about politeness?”

Pretending to think about it for a moment, I tap my chin. “Yeah, I think I can deal with that.”

“Good.”

“C’mon. I promise, it can only go up from here.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says with a wink.

Leading him to my third-story walkup, my mind races. I’ve never cared one way or another about others' opinions because they’re like assholes… everyone has one. But I find myself giving a damn about what this man thinks.

When I open my door, I step inside and to the left so he can enter. Holding my breath, I wait for his reaction, and when he whistles, I smile. The outside of my home might be shit, but inside is an entirely different matter.

“I wasnotexpecting this,” he says as he approaches my wall of art. “Did you do these?”

My eyes flit from one colored-pencil drawing to the next, pride welling in my chest. Life might be challenging for me, but at least I know I excel at something.

“Yeah. I, uh, illustrate children’s books. Those are the originals.”

“You’re really good.”

“I know.”

“And humble,” he teases.

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