Page 53 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Sophie?"

"What? Yes. Artifacts. Very important."

His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "First rule of motorcycle safety—"

"You're giving me rules?" The laugh escaped before I could stop it. "That's usually my job."

"Consider it academic reciprocation." He moved closer, all athlete's grace and barely contained energy. "Put your right foot here," he guided my foot to the passenger peg, his hand warm through my rain-soaked jeans. "Swing your left leg over. Like mounting a horse, but with more horsepower."

"I've never ridden a horse either."

"Then consider this your first lesson in vehicular trust exercises." His hand stayed steady on my elbow as I awkwardly clambered onto the bike. "The important thing is maintaining your center of gravity while protecting the artifacts."

I managed to get on without dropping either the surgical kit or my dignity, which felt like a significant victory. Then Jack climbed on in front of me, and suddenly victory felt a lot like torture.

"You'll need to hold on," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "One arm around my waist, the other securing the artifacts. Keep the case vertical – these old instruments are sensitive to positional stress."

This is fine. This is normal. This is just a professional courtesy between colleagues who may or may not have almost kissed during a power outage last week.

"Sophie?"

"Hm?"

"You're not holding on."

"Right. Yes. Holding. For artifact safety."

I wrapped my arm around his waist, trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance. The first turn eliminated that possibility entirely. Survival instinct kicked in, and suddenly, I was pressed against him like a Victorian lady with a case of the vapors.

"Lean with me through the turns," he called over his shoulder. "Like dancing. You follow my lead and anticipate the movement. The bike responds better when we work together."

Like dancing. That’s not an emotionally loaded comparison at all.

"The surgical kit—"

"Is perfectly stabilized against your arm. Trust your instincts, Sophie. You're good at protecting things that matter."

The way he said it – like he meant more than just artifacts – made my chest tight.

The rain made everything more intense – the need to stay close, the warmth of his body against the cold, the way his muscles moved as he guided the motorcycle through city streets. Each turn required perfect synchronization, a physical trust I wasn't ready to examine too closely.

"You're a natural," he said during a stop light, his hand briefly covering mine where it rested on his waist. "Most first-time riders fight the lean."

"Maybe I'm just good at following rules."

"Maybe you're better at trusting than you think."

Before I could process that, the light changed, and we were moving again. The rain intensified, and sheets of water made visibility a theoretical concept.

We were halfway across town when the sky totally opened up. Lightning split the sky, followed by thunder that made the bike vibrate. Jack pulled into a covered garage, cutting the engine.

"We need to wait it out," he said, not moving to dismount. Not asking me to let go. "The artifacts can't handle this much exposure. These old brass fittings are especially susceptible to rapid temperature changes."

"Right. The artifacts."

We sat there in rain-scented silence, my arm still around his waist, his heart beating steady under my palm. The surgical kit rested safely in my other arm, its brass fittings catching dim light like stars.

"Check the humidity indicator," he said softly. "Make sure the case seal is holding."

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