Page 45 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

He is at the curb, sitting on a big matte black Triumph motorcycle. Despite its retro design, it’s clearly modern. Alistair is wearing a helmet, and he’s struck a pose that makes the most of his muscular jean-clad thighs. Thank goodness sunglasses hide my ogling eyes. I have no shame when it comes to this man. Still no sign of any paparazzi on the street. No telling how long our luck will hold out. We need to enjoy our time together while we can.

“The jacket looks good,” he remarks with a small smile. “Put the helmet on so I can check the fit.”

I slide it onto my head, and he fusses with the chin strap. “How does that feel, Lilah?”

“Good.”

“Good. Ready to go for a ride?”

I lick my lips and nod. My nerves have obviously not abated. About him or the bike or both—who can tell?

“What’s wrong?” he asks in an amused tone. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I could ask you the same question. Though I have, haven’t I?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between us. Then he holds my chin and stares deep into my eyes. Like he can read the secrets of the universe in my gaze or something. Having his undivided attention remains a hell of a rush. Then, finally, he says with all due seriousness, “Yes, Lilah, I trust you.”

I smile. “Thank you. I trust you too.”

“Hop on,” he says and holds out a hand to me. I swing a leg over the machine and carefully climb on. This is obviously what had me worked up. This moment right here. Because riding on a bike with him means all the bodily contact. We could hardly get closer with our clothes on. The hard line of his back and the breadth of his shoulders. How big and solid his body feels. It’s a wonder I don’t drool.

“Right up against me,” he says. “Hands nice and tight around my waist.”

“Okay.”

He starts the engine, and smooth as can be, the motorcycle comes to life beneath me. It’s a heck of a vibration. I say this as someone who’s made it a mission to test an array of such things. As is good and right.

“Nice and tight,” he repeats, drawing my hands around him. I remind myself he is not in fact talking dirty to me. Just issuing safety instructions. Only this doesn’t feel safe. Not for me and my messy emotions.

I press my front to his back and cling to his waist. It isn’t fair how deep and rough his voice is. Same goes for his hot accent. Add the giant vibrator I am currently sitting on top of, and I never stood a chance.

“Lilah,” he says. “Who’s that?”

“Huh?” I look up.

And standing there on the sidewalk staring at us is Josh holding a single red rose. Cheating on someone and then abusing them via text seems more of a whole bouquet kind of situation. Though he always was cheap. He stares at us, his mouth open and brows high. You would think kicking someone out and blocking them would send a message. I know he read the articles about me and the almost-prince, but seeing me with another man has him stunned. Which is ridiculous.

“It’s my ex,” I say. “Josh.”

Alistair’s body tenses. “The one who cheated on you? Do you want to talk to him?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“And say what, exactly?”

He grunts. “Actually, I was just going to punch him in the face. I don’t suppose you’d be okay with that?”

“Hmm. That’s another no.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, then.”

He revs the engine, and we take off down the street, leaving my sordid past behind. Which is exactly where it belongs.

We ride a circuit—Laurel Canyon, Mulholland Drive, and Cahuenga Boulevard—with great views of LA and the Valley. My butt goes numb about halfway, but I could happily cling to Alistair all day. What was fun in the convertible is even better on the back of a bike. The rush of the wind and the feeling of freedom as you watch the world go by. It’s little wonder people get addicted. This absolutely qualifies as a daring exercise, racing through the Hollywood Hills with a royal rebel.

We don’t stop or speak—we just ride.

---