Page 17 of A Man for the Holidays

I pull my phone from my pocket and open my photo album. Then I scroll through the photos in my camera roll and click on the photo of my bike and hand the phone to Quinn.

“That’s my baby,” I tell him.

“Baby?” he asks.

“It’s what I call it,” I say.

He studies the picture for several seconds, then his eyes widen, and he says, “It looks so small, nothing like a car. And where does the other person sit?”

“Here, behind me,” I say, pointing at the back of the seat.

His eyes widen once more as he stares at the image a little longer. He then tilts the phone to his right, then straightens it up again, then tilts it to the left, and left again so it’s facing downward, before turning it the right way up again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m trying to work out how someone would fit on the back of that tiny seat,” he says, horrified.

“Well, you have to ride on it like a real cowboy. You just hop on and place one leg on each side.”

“And what am I supposed to hold on to?” he asks.

“You wrap your hands around the waist of the person riding it.”

“So, I would wrap my hands around your waist?”

His comment has me blushing, with a great big grin on my face.

“What happened to your face?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your cheeks, they’ve gone all red.”

That comment has me blushing more than I already am, and I try to turn my face away so that I’m not looking directly at him anymore.

“It’s nothing, it’s just a little warm in here,” I lie.

“How are we supposed to fit a tree on the back of that motorcycle?”

I laugh at that, then turn around and face him again as I say, “We will ride to the tree farm, pick out a beautiful tree, and then we will have it delivered.”

“Oh, I see,” he says, with a smile. “Maybe I should dress first?”

I give him a nod, then get off the bed and make my way out of his room. It doesn’t take him very long to change, in fact, in less than ten minutes, the two of us are standing outside the apartment building, and walking to the street, where my bike is parked. I pull off the protective cover, fold it over several times and place it on the ground. I then take a step toward the bike, reach out and grab the first helmet and hold it out to Quinn.

“What is that?” he asks.

“It’s a helmet, you put it on your head.”

“Why would I want to put that on my head, it looks… hideous.”

“It protects you in case you fall off the bike if we have an accident.”

“An accident? What kind of accident?”

I see the look of horror on his face, so I take a step toward him, then carefully place the helmet on his head and click the buckle on the end of the strap. Swinging my leg over the bike, I position myself, then grab my own helmet and place it on my head.

“Okay, now get on, then put your arms around me and hold on tight.”

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