Page 102 of She's Like the Wind
Now, she’s thirty-one. I’m thirty-two.
I still love her.
Shethinksshe hates me.
“Moonbeam, what do you want me to do?” I ask her patiently.
“First, you can stop calling me Moonbeam,” she grits out. “Andsecond, you can tell Tommy that you don’t have the time to work on the Minton Memorial Hospital project.”
“But Idohave time,” I remind her, pushing back against the leather of my office chair, my hands grasping the steel arms. A necessity to stop myself from grabbing her like a caveman and having my way with her.
I came back to Savannah a year ago with one goal:to win my girl back.
She hasn’t made it easy for me.
If you want easy, Dom, swipe right! Easy is trying to climb Mount Everest in your flip-flops while Luna is trying to knee you in the nuts.
Despite the risk of bodily harm, when Tommy Minton, the patriarchal asshole, told me that he wouldn’t give the Minton Memorial Hospital project to Savannah Lace, the company Luna worked for, because he didn’t want some woman architect fucking it up—I convinced him to do it anyway by agreeing to partner with her, or in his wordssuperviseher.
She’d kill me if she thought I’d do that.
And, I won’t. Why would I? She’s an ace architect. She knows hospital code better than anyone I’ve ever worked with.
Hell, she’s going to teachme, not the other way around.
She narrows her eyes at me like she’s measuring the exact pressure required to crush my windpipe. Luna’s like that—brilliant and cold when she wants to be, and fire when she needs to be.
She wasn’t always this sharp-edged, but I suppose I honed that blade.
God, she’s beautiful.
She always was—back when she wore her hair in pigtails, and now, with it cut short to frame those sharp, unforgettable features.
She’s forever been a tomboy, always favored denim and leather over silk and pearls. But nothing—and I mean nothing—is sexier than seeing Luna ride her badass Triumph Bonneville T120 Black.
That bike is Luna.
Understated elegance.
Not too flashy.
Classic lines with a modern edge.
Heritage styling and serious horsepower—1200cc of parallel-twin muscle that doesn’t suffer fools.
Definitely not a beginner’s bike. It’s powerful, precise, and completely in control.
Just like her.
The first time I saw her ride it was a year ago, right after I moved back to Savannah. Lev—her brother, my best friend—told me it was a new acquisition for her, replacing a Ducati she had previously owned.
I was mesmerized watching her as she pulled up, the bike humming beneath her, then went quiet as she flipped up her visor and tugged off her helmet.
Fingers combed through her wind-tossed hair, and the engine clicked as it cooled in the heavy, golden heat of a Savannah dusk.
She looked like a storm rolling in.
Black armored Roland Sands jacket.
