Page 11 of Peaches

My purse slides off my shoulder, hooking in the crook of my elbow. I hold eye contact with him as I settle back onto the stool. “Fine,” I say quietly.

If he’s relieved by my choice to stay, he doesn’t show it. All I get from him is a quick dip of his chin before he walks away, busying himself with making a drink. To my surprise, he drops it in front of me when he’s done, rumbling out, “A real drink,” before he plucks the White Russian off the bar with two fingers and disappears into the collection of tables behind me.

I take a tentative sip of the new drink—a strong Jack and Coke—and cough to clear the burn in my throat. But warmth spreads down my chest with it, and I decide I like the feeling.

Turns out, I don’t have to wait too long. I spend some time reading a book through an app on my phone, and it feels like only a few minutes have passed before Rhett’s standing in front of me again, a stoic look on his face. “Ready?” he asks. He’s wearing a brown fleece-lined work jacket zipped up to his chest, hand stuffed in the front pockets.

“Already?” I say.

“It’s been almost two hours.”

I glance at the analog clock hanging on the wall above the beer taps, confident I’ll find 8:30 flashing back at me, at the latest. But sure enough, it’s almost ten. “Oh,” I say, realizing just how lost in my book I’d gotten as I tuck my phone back into my purse. “Yeah, I’m ready.” I wrap my own jacket—my favorite: distressed denim with sewn-on pearls and rhinestones—around my shoulders and stand to follow him out the front door.

The air outside is cold and sharp as it slices right through all my layers, burrowing into a bone-deep chill, and I wrap the front of my jacket tighter around my middle to seal in as much warmth as I can while trailing behind Rhett into the parking lot. Rhett, who doesn’t appear affected in the slightest by the freeze of winter. I distract myself by trying to match a vehicle to the man, assuming he’s probably driving some fashion of a truck.

Unlike most of the businesses in Saddlebrook Falls that sit together in town square, Wild Coyote is an isolated establishment tucked behind a few layers of tall trees and wild brush. You wouldn’t know it’s there by simply passing it on the main road—even at night, there are no exterior lights that shine like beacons to attract new customers. The bar itself doesn’t have any windows for indoor light to spill out of, so it’s only by moonlight that we’re able to see anything out here.

But when Rhett stops walking, there’s no mistaking what he’s standing next to.

“No way,” I protest, looking at the two-wheeled deathtrap parked at the end of the row. Silver metal bars jut up toward the sky, only dimly illuminated by the stars.

Rhett unties a strap to free a dark helmet from the seat and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”

A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “Sorry, I don’t think you heard me. There’s nowayI’m getting on this thing.” I’ve seen Rhett on a motorcycle before, rumbling through town, mean-mugging everyone who so much as looks at him. But for some reason, I figured he’d have a second vehicle—something practical for everyday use that isn’t so . . . risky.

“I heard you,” he clarifies. “I’m just hoping if I ignore your spiral, we’ll get to the part where you cowboy up and get on the bike quicker.”

“That’s a little bold, don’t you think? To just assume I’d be okay with getting on . . .that.” I hike my purse up my shoulder. “You know, you’ve been making assumptions about me all night.”

Rhett’s head tilts with an amusement that feels dangerous as his gray eyes assess me, cocksure and oozing confidence. “Oh yeah? What sort of assumptions have I been making?”

“That I’m on some sort ofloserkick, trying to find douchey guys to date me. That I purposefully decidedyourbar would be a good place for it, as if I’m trying to, I don’t know, mess with you or something?” My eyes jump back to the motorcycle. “Or that I would ever get on a dangerous hunk of metal destined to spread my blood and guts across a highway.”

A little dramatic perhaps, but I’m making a point here.

Still, Rhett smiles. And I want to stomp my foot and scream.

“Olivia,” his deep voice rumbles. “One, youareon a loser kick. Exhibits AandB are the assholes I’ve seen you with in the last twenty-four hours. Two, I find it pretty fucking coincidental that after seeing you last night two towns away, you ended up right in front of me again tonight. But you said you didn’t realize I might be there despite it being my family’s bar, and I believe you. And three”—he tosses the helmet at me in a low-speed underhand move that still has me shrieking as I easily catch it—“I would never let anything happen to you on this bike.” He says it like it’s a simple fact.

I look down at the helmet and then back up at him. “I watched you take shots.”

At this, the cockiness slips. Like I might have touched on the one thing that could actually poke a hole through his plans. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. But it was a couple hours ago, and I promise I don’t feel anything. I’ve had plenty of water since . . . I’m pretty sure any trace of that whiskey would be gone by now. But . . .” He pauses, shifting on his feet. “If you want to go back to the bar and watch me down a cup of coffee before we leave, I’ll do it.”

His words unspool in me a steadying calm. For as much as he grumbles and glares, he wants my trust. I’m not sure what to make of it. I mean, he’s aBennettfor goodness’ sake.

This is exactly what you wanted, a small voice unhelpfully chirps inside of me.

I try to shove it down, but it’s no use, because it’s right. Getting on the back of a dangerous man’s bike is pretty much in line with the kind of fear-inducing rush of adventure I’ve been craving for longer than I care to admit. It’s what prompted me to let Charlotte download dating apps on my phone in the first place.

The truth is, I’ve reached a level of boredom with my life that rivals studying for the SATs or listening to the same song on repeat for years on end. If my life were a reality show, it would only exist on C-SPAN, and that’snotto knock on the episodes ofAmerican WritersI get hooked on late at night when I can’t sleep.

To be fair, my mother vehemently raised me to believe that risk is an unnecessary undertaking, especially as it relates to romance. And while growing up I mostly felt thankful that she’d set me straight and helped me avoid so much of the embarrassing drama my peers fell victim to as they navigated love and, inevitably, loss, I can’t help but now feel I may have missed out.

Sure, I have everything I need for a decent life—I signed a lease on my first home last year after Gus Romano’s sister passed away and he put her vacant property up for rent (by which I mean he posted a sign in the window of Mustang’s Pizza to advertise to everyone who walked in) and am paying for it all on my own with money I saved working at the café. The café my mother owns and will someday hand over to me.

It’s not like she’s scared me away from men altogether. She just wants me to steer clear of the ones who stand as a threat between me and my carefully guarded heart so that I don’t end up desperate to fill a hole the size of Saturn in a perilously broken one when one of those men inevitably shatters it. It’s me who’s never been sure how to tell the dangerous ones from the good ones, so I’ve avoided men altogether in hopes that someday I’d figure out the difference—just in time for my own Prince Charming to walk into my life and sweep me off my feet.

But I haven’t figured out anything other than I won’t ever know if I don’t try, which is what led me to making plans with both Trent and Tony this weekend. Admittedly, both dates were catastrophic failures. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t see the opportunity right in front of me, shaped like a hostile cowboy with a clear fetish for danger.

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