Page 20 of Boiling Point
Gabrielle accepted it with a hesitant grace, her fingers brushing mine for a moment too brief. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said, though the delight in her voice betrayed her.
I smiled, enjoying her reaction more than I ought to. “Happy to. Though I’ll confess, the gift is rather self-serving.”
She tilted her head, interest piqued. “Now I’m worried,” she teased, stepping aside to let me in.
I laughed as I crossed the threshold. “Go on, open it,” I urged, shrugging out of my black leather jacket.
Her gaze swept over me, an involuntary flicker that caught on my fitted black shirt and dark denim jeans—a marked departure from my usual university attire. She looked away, but not before I caught the faint flush coloring her cheeks.
We settled in the living room, where she placed the bag on the coffee table before peeking inside. Her face lit up as she pulled out an electric kettle and a box of Yorkshire Gold.
Her laugh was bright and unguarded. “Clearly for your benefit.”
“And yours. If I fail at everything else, I’ll at least have you making tea properly.”
Her flat was warm and intimate, scented faintly of cinnamon and coffee. Morning sun poured through the sliding glass doors, scattering pools of light across the sand-colored carpet.
She set the kettle aside and met my gaze with a mix of shyness and boldness that left me breathless. “Can I make you a cup now?” she asked. “Show off my new skills?”
“Perhaps when we get back,” I replied.
“Where are we going?”
I couldn’t help but savor her curiosity as it flared again. I rose, watching her follow suit. “Come with me and find out,” I said, pulling on my jacket. At the door, I turned to Gabrielle, holding her gaze. “One more thing. No handbag today.”
Her brow knitted in confusion, curiosity mounting. “Really?”
“Everything you need should fit in your pockets,” I insisted, relishing her hesitation before she nodded.
I watched, amused, as she locked the door and tucked her phone, wallet, and keys into her jacket. The sun shone brightly,casting long shadows across the block of flats as we made our way outside.
We approached the car park, and there it was—sleek, black on black, every inch built for speed and temptation. A machine designed to purr beneath you on the open road, all clean lines and quiet power, poised like a predator waiting to charge its prey.
I glanced sideways at Gabrielle. She froze, eyes wide, mouth half-open.
“Cal…” Her voice was a mix of awe and incredulity. “Are you serious?”
A grin stretched across my face. “Entirely.”
“I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life,” she confessed, glancing from me to the bike and back. “Death machines, my dad used to call them.”
“That’s rich,” I replied with a chuckle. “Seeing as you put me in a flying tin can yesterday.”
I unlatched the pannier, pulled out the spare helmet, and handed it to her, watching trepidation play across her face.
“It’s your turn to be brave and trust me.”
Gabrielle hesitated for a heartbeat, then slid the helmet on. I couldn’t see her expression, but apprehension clung to her movements as she fumbled with the strap. I stepped closer and gently adjusted it, her warm breath skimming against my fingers. She stilled as I fastened it beneath her chin, my touch lingering a moment too long.
I unclipped my helmet from the handlebars and settled it on my head, watching her closely. The look in her eyes was priceless—a cocktail of thrill and dread that echoed how I’d felt in the air with her yesterday. The slight tremble in her hands as she touched the helmet’s visor didn’t escape me.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her muffled voice threaded with curiosity.
“It’ll take just over an hour to get there,” I replied cryptically, fastening my chin strap. “You’ll like it.”
She tilted her head skeptically, but I could tell she was intrigued. I swung a leg over the bike and patted the seat behind me in invitation.
Gabrielle approached with careful, deliberate steps, uncertainty stitched through every moment. She climbed on with more grace than I expected, yet perched stiffly on the seat.
