Page 17 of Perfectly Grumpy

He tips his head back with a groan. “I know you’re right. But I hate that you’re right.”

I laugh and pat his arm sweetly. “Oh, the horror of being a wickedly handsome athlete. How will you endure it?”

He sighs. “Fine. Next week, I’ll sit on the bike.”

I cross my arms. “Oh, no. We’re not stopping at sitting. You’re going to ride the thing—and look good doing it.”

“I don’t even have a bike.”

I lean in, grinning. “Lucky for you, I have just the solution.”

SEVEN

lauren

“Do I have to do this?” Tate asks when I show up at Rose & Thorn for the motorcycle shoot. He crosses his arms as he studies the bike in a way that usually precedes a detailed, but logical, argument. “I’ve reviewed your plan, and I’m still not convinced this translates into a measurable PR win.”

“We agreed to this, remember?” I reply as we head toward the bike. “And my bike will be fun. Or at least photogenic.”

He stops on the sidewalk, his gaze landing on the motorcycle parked next to the curb. “You didn’t tell me it was a Harley.”

“My dad’s,” I reply. “He was going to sell it after Mom passed. They used to ride it together all the time, and I couldn’t let it go.”

The Harley Davidson Softail gleams in the sun, its deep glossy red matching the memory of my mom perched on the back in her denim jacket, laughing and waving to neighbors as they rode through town.

Tate circles it, his face a mixture of disbelief and wonder. “You?Youride this?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yes, me,” I shoot back, planting a hand on my hip. “Is that so hard to believe?”

He glances at me, then the bike, then back again. “Just saying…you don’t exactly give off biker energy.”

Ilift an eyebrow. “Stick around, Sheriff,” I say.“I positively hum with biker energy.” I motion toward the bike. “Get on. See how it feels.”

He swings his leg over and sits on the bike, but he doesn’t immediately reach for the helmet or start the engine. Instead, he runs a hand along the handlebars, like he’s sizing it up. His fingers flex over the throttle, and for a second, I catch the tiniest flicker of interest.

My plan is working.Get him to ride it so he’ll loosen up, and then I can get the shots I need.

But as soon as I pull out a camera, he stiffens, his shoulders rigid, his lips tightened into a line. The change is subtle but unmistakable.

I frown. “Hey, Sheriff, you’re supposed to look sexy, not like you’re auditioning for a safety video.”

He swings a leg off the bike with a quiet sigh. “Which is why I’m not the guy for this photo shoot.” He avoids looking at me. “But I’m sure Rourke would happily take off his shirt and pose for you.”

He turns and heads toward the house, calm and deliberate, like he’s decided the discussion is over.

I freeze. That wasn’t just annoyance—he shut down, his hurt masked by logic. This is hard for him, but I need to make it easier, playing by the rules—his.

“Tate,” I call. “Hey, don’t leave yet. I don’t want Rourke. I wantyou.”

He stops, then turns back. His mouth curves just slightly. “Careful, Sunny. Say things like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

I grin, because this is the Tate I need for the shoot. “Well, Iwasmomentarily weakened by the sight of you on a motorcycle.” Then I walk over and reach for his arm, playfully nudging him toward the bike. “Come on, what happened to the guy who promised me he could be fun?”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he tenses beneath my touch.

That’s when I realize the mistake I just made: I just touched him. Not in a professional sort of way, but in athis is a bad idea if you want to keep things strictly PRkind of way.

I drop my hand fast. Because I know the rules. No touching the players. No blurring lines. Especially not with a guy I can’t seem to stop thinking about lately.

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