Page 48 of Smooth Sailing

And I had to admit, I further got off on the fact he was him, in jeans and a tee, messy hair, big beard; and I was me, balayage, pink crop pants and pumps.

The dichotomy that was us, together on his bike, was a specific kind of turn-on that practically begged me to lean into it, embrace it, wrap my arms around his stomach, press my cheek to his shoulder and be one with him on his bike.

It wasn’t lost on me Hugger was a certain kind of trouble and I needed to tread cautiously.

But it was now dawning on me he was definite trouble, and I had to watch myself carefully.

I’d had two long-term relationships.

The first was a heartbreaker. I was deeply in love (I thought). So when I found he was emotionally cheating on me via texts with his high school girlfriend, I’d been gutted.

After I broke up with him, she broke up with her boyfriend, and they got together. They were that way for a while, even got engaged, then in a rather spectacular (and humiliating for him) fashion, she returned to the boyfriend she dumped, and he tried to return to me.

That didn’t happen.

The second just petered out. He knew it, I knew it. We went our separate ways and were still friends, in a more friend/acquaintance/used-to-sleep-together kind of way.

I’d never dated a biker. I’d never dated anyone outside my social or cultural stratum.

The thing with Hugger wasn’t that.

It was Suzette and needing to focus on her. It was also Suzette, and her needing all kinds of support, and not having to witness right in her face two people circling each other (and what might come of it). It was Denver, and the fact he lived there.

And it was that he gave no indication he wanted my thumbs out of his belt loops and my arms wrapped around him, my cheek to his shoulder.

Oh yeah.

That was the biggie.

“I don’t get it,” he said, bringing me back to us sitting opposite each other in a bodacious sandwich joint.

“You don’t get what?”

“You spit on paintings for a living. How did you get your sweet crib?”

I put aside my unsettling thoughts, laughed at what he said, and told him, “Saliva has enzymes that help gently clean away dirt.”

“I suspected. Still, you live in Scottsdale, which is class. And so is your complex and your unit. It’s a lot for someone who cleans paintings with spit and a Q-Tip.”

“I won at roulette, thirteen black, about three months before my grandfather died of a stroke and left me some money.”

“Right,” he said, munching into a potato chip.

“Most of my place was like it is, but Larry is a contractor and he put in the kitchen at a massive discount using stuff some rich lady ordered, paid for, decided she didn’t want, and just ordered something else even though it was custom and she couldn’t get a refund on it. She didn’t want it hanging around, so she told Larry he could have it.”

“Rich people do crazy shit,” he muttered, picking up his sandwich and taking the last big bite.

“They do,” I agreed. “Anyway, his guys did some adjustments so it could work in my space. Larry was able to get his hands on some top-notch appliances that had some scratches and dings you can’t see. And voilà! Fantastic new kitchen.”

“Who’s Larry?”

“My…I don’t know. My ex-stepmom’s husband. So I guess he’s kind of my sorta-like stepdad, once removed.”

Hugger studied me, his deep brown eyes active, but I didn’t know exactly what he was mulling over.

“I take it you’re still tight with your stepmom,” he noted while I took a bite of my own sandwich.

I chewed while nodding.

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