Page 26 of Boiling Point
I heard a throat clear behind me and whipped around. An older woman—short, stout, and impeccably dressed in Sunday finery—stood there clutching a colossal handbag.
“Be sure to leave some room for Jesus now, you hear?” she said, her accent thick, twangy, and unmistakably Southern. I stiffened, and Gabrielle bit back a laugh.
The woman surveyed us with genteel disapproval, her painted lips pursed beneath a feathery church hat. “It’s Sunday,” she declared, clutching her handbag tighter. “And y’all ain’t in California.”
Heat crept up my neck. I stepped back from Gabrielle, my hand trailing down her arm until only our fingertips touched. Despite my irritation, I couldn’t suppress a smile at the absurdity of it all—caught like teenagers by the town busybody.
“Some advice, young man?” she added with a smile that was anything but warm. “Save some of that energy for your wedding night.”
Gabrielle stifled a giggle behind her hand, and my irritation dissolved into an awkward chuckle.
I nodded, hoping I appeared respectful. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She gave us one last curt nod before continuing down the street with a self-satisfied air of triumph, her heels clacking an indignant rhythm on the pavement.
As soon as the woman rounded the corner, Gabrielle doubled over in laughter.
I tried to look stern but failed miserably. “We’ve been shamed in the name of Jesus,” I said, pulling Gabrielle back into my arms. “By a woman with a handbag larger than her head.”
“Small towns.” She sighed, nestling against me as if she belonged nowhere else.
Her warmth seeped into me, dissolving whatever discomfort lingered from our ambush. We stood there for a moment longer before I kissed the top of her head and pulled away. “We should probably head back before it gets too late,” I murmured, though every part of me rebelled at the thought.
Gabrielle tilted her face up, eyes searching mine. “I suppose.”
Her reluctance echoed my own—a shared hesitancy to leave behind the anonymity and abandon we’d found, tucked over an hour away from everyone and everything. Here, in this small, sleepy town, time bent just for us. But as we walked hand in hand through the empty streets, that fragile spell had already begun to unravel.
We reached my motorcycle, parked solitary and defiant at the edge of an empty lot. I paused, fished the keys from my pocket, and turned to Gabrielle with a grin.
“Want to try driving?”
Her eyes widened in a perfect blend of horror and incredulity. She took a step back, shaking her head emphatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m fond of living,” she said, hands on her hips, trying to look stern but adorably missing the mark.
I spread my arms wide, my grin lingering. “I’ll teach you.”
Gabrielle crossed her arms, a playful defiance in her bright eyes. “Not a chance.”
With a laugh, I relented, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Another time.”
She arched a brow—half skeptical, half daring—and I reached into the pannier to pull out her helmet. I tossed it lightly and caught the small breath she released as she caught it—satisfaction in winning this tiny standoff.
We geared up in familiar silence. Every movement—sliding gloves on, tightening helmet straps—was methodical, but beneath it, a charged awareness buzzed, one neither of us dared acknowledge. We were leaving the cocoon, reentering the world. I mounted the bike and waited.
Gabrielle slid in behind me, and the second her body pressed against mine, the spell broke and reformed into something sharper—less magical, more magnetic. Her warmth seeped through both our jackets, and her hands settled around my waist, slow and possessive.
I braced myself, my thumb hovering over the starter, when she leaned forward, her breath tickling the skin just behind my ear.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” I turned, catching her eyes beneath the visor.
“Why are you okay riding this thing when you’re terrified of flying?”
I tensed, caught, then forced a short laugh. “I’m not terrified of flying.”
