Page 44 of Thornhill Road

A zing sparked in my belly as I filled my fork with the last of my eggs.

“You’ll pick me up at six…on your bike?”

“Yeah, sugar, we’re on the hog tonight.”

I wasn’t sure if I was hiding my smile from Mustang or myself as I shoveled my fork into my mouth.

When I was finished with my bite, I reached for the remainder of my biscuit and confessed, “If you keep feeding me bread at every meal, I will soon no longer fit into my clothes. I don’t exercise. I know that I should, but after a day at work, going to the gym is the last thing I want to do.”

In spite of what I’d said, as soon as I was finished speaking, I bit a chunk out of my butter and jelly smothered biscuit.

Mustang, having consumed his last bite, pushed his plate away from him. Mumbling around the food in his mouth, he said, “Exercise won’t be a problem, Tess.” He finished chewing, swallowed, then added, “You hurry up and finish that plate, we’ll squeeze in a round of cardio before I go.”

I looked down at my plate.

I had a bite of biscuit left and a strip of bacon.

With my mouth full of biscuit, I pushed my plate toward him and insisted, “You can have the bacon.”

He grinned, and excitement rippled through me, warming me from the inside out.

This time—I didn’t bother hiding my smile.

He didn’t eat the bacon.

But we did get in a round of cardio.

After we both came, we exchanged phone numbers.

Then before he left, he kissed me deep and greedy.

I wasn’t sure wherewe were going, but I was suredinnerwith Mustang warranted my iconic, “hot chick,” four-inch, Louboutin heels. I wore them with a pair of black jeans, and a flowy, white, crisscross halter top. I swapped out the studs in my ears for my small, gold hoop earrings, and put on my usual amount of makeup. I felt pretty certain Mustang was a fan of my wavy hair down, plus I liked it free to fly in the wind on the bike, so I let it be.

I grabbed my denim jacket, just in case, all the while making note that if this thing with Mustang really did go anywhere, that would be justification enough to splurge on a new leather jacket.

I was ready to go and pacing back and forth across my living room a few minutes before six o’clock. This wasn’t our first date. Technically it was our second; though, one could make a strong case in saying it was ourfourthif dinner followed by breakfast in my kitchen could be counted as dates. I wasn’t so sure. But hehadtaken me to bed after each meal.

In any case, this somehowfeltlike a first date—and I was filled with that jittery, excited nervousness associated with such an occasion.

When I heard his Harley rumbling toward my driveway, I froze.

That sound alone caused an ache between my legs.

I wasn’t sure if Mustang was the kind of guy to pick up his date at the door or not, and I contemplated meeting him outside. It was the gentlemanly thing to do to meet a woman at her door—but with the type of guy I tended to attract, it was never a guarantee.

I was still debating when there was a knock at my door.

I came unstuck and went to answer it.

My heart swelled when I found Mustang had dressed up.

To the casual observer, he still appeared dressed down—but I wasn’t a casual observer.

He had on his kutte, but that was a given. He was also wearing a pair of dark-washed jeans and a short sleeved, charcoal gray henley that was fitted across the chest and tight around his biceps. It wasn’t exactly a button-up, but it was a shirt with buttons, which he’d also tucked in, revealing the belt her wore.

He was so totally dressed up for me.

I smiled big, unable to help myself.

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