Page 37 of Heart of Stone
"Two weeks," I concede. "Max." I poke him in the chest. "And no biker business. You keep that shit to yourself. Got me?"
His shoulders relax, but his eyes darken as he catches my finger, holding it against his chest. "Careful, little lamb. Keep touching me like that, and I might forget why this is a bad idea."
My breath catches. "Which part?"
"You. Under the same roof." His thumb traces circles on my wrist. "In my space. Smelling like my soap."
"I—"
"Making pancakes in the morning." He steps closer, still holding my wrist. "Walking around in those tiny shorts after the kids are asleep. Anyone ever tell you that your thighs make a man think of sex?"
Considering I’m a size eighteen on a good day—the answer is no.
Not that I’ll ever tell him.
Heat blooms on my cheeks. "Hawk?—"
"You want to know why I'm doing this?" His other hand comes up, and I flinch away.
“What are you doing?”
“You have some grease.” He gently cups my cheek, wiping the smudge from my skin.
"I’m doing this,” he repeats, his gaze locked with mine, “because I can't decide if I want you gone or underneath me, and until I figure it out, I'm not letting you out of my sight."
I don’t know how to take this admission. I open my mouth, searching for words, when a motorcycle roars into the parking lot. The sound is horrible and grinding—engine knocking, timing off.
"Damn it," I mutter, using the interruption to step back, my skin tingling where he touched me. "That better not be?—"
"Andi," Duck calls from outside the office, tapping against the window. "He’s fucked it this time."
I swear softly, stepping out from around Hawk. "I told that dick if he rode it before I checked the timing?—"
The bike cuts off with an awful grinding sound.
"Yeah," Hawk drawls from behind me. "We're done here. Go fix his mess."
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. "This conversation isn’t over."
"Yes, it is." His voice drops lower. "But we can start a different one later."
Heat pools in my belly at his tone, but I force myself to focus on the disaster pulling into the lot.
The Vincent Black Shadow is a classic—a British motorcycle produced from 1948 to 1955, the gorgeous import has a v-twinengine, cantilever rear suspension, and can reach a top speed of 150mph—not bad for an old bike.
They command high prices at auctions and are in high demand by collectors.
A pity its current owner is a guy with more money than the sense God gave a gnat.
"What did you do?" I demand as the rider dismounts.
"Nothing! It just started making this noise and?—"
I hold up my hand. "Stop, Nicky. Just... stop talking before I cry."
Or punch you.
Behind me, I hear Hawk's low chuckle as he heads back to his bike.
