Page 103 of Saddle and Scent
The moped idles smoothly, the sound somehow both powerful and delicate. Callum adjusts the throttle, listening to the engine with the kind of concentration most people reserve for symphonies.
"Want to take it for a ride?" he asks, cutting the engine and looking at me with something that might be hope.
A ride.
Just the two of us, on a machine that represents freedom and adventure and all the things I used to dream about when I was young and stupid enough to believe the world was full of possibilities.
"I don't have a helmet," I say, though it's a weak protest and we both know it.
"Neither do I," he says with a shrug. "We'll go slow. Stay on the back roads."
He's asking for a mini date.
This is exactly what Wes was talking about—exploring each other's interests, finding new ways to connect.
And honestly, the idea of being pressed against Callum's back while we cruise through the countryside sounds like the best kind of therapy.
"Okay," I say, before I can talk myself out of it. "But if we crash and die, I'm haunting you for eternity."
His laugh is rich and warm, the kind of sound that makes my chest tight with things I'm not ready to name.
"Deal."
Twenty minutes later, we're cruising down a back road that winds through farmland and forest, the late afternoon sun casting everything in golden light. I'm pressed against Callum's back, arms wrapped around his waist, the vibration of the engine thrumming through my body in the most pleasant way.
This is perfect.
This is exactly what I didn't know I needed.
The countryside around Saddlebrush Ridge is gorgeous in a way that makes you understand why people never leave. Rolling hills covered in wildflowers, old farmhouses that look like they've been here since the beginning of time, horses grazing in pastures that stretch to the horizon.
I'd forgotten how beautiful it is out here.
How peaceful.
How much like home it feels when you're not running from it.
Callum takes a curve with practiced ease, leaning just enough to make my stomach flip with excitement. I can smell his scent even over the wind and exhaust—pine and smoke and something fundamentally him that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and never let go.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that got me into trouble this morning.
Focus on the ride, Juniper.
Focus on the moment.
Focus on anything except how good it feels to be this close to him.
We've been riding for maybe an hour when the engine starts to sputter. Callum pulls over to the side of the road, a frown creasing his forehead as he kills the engine and climbs off.
"What's wrong?" I ask, though I can already see him checking various components with the focused intensity of a diagnostician.
"Fuel line, I think," he says, poking at something near the carburetor. "Probably just needs a quick adjustment."
Of course.
Because nothing good can last without some kind of mechanical intervention.
I'm about to make a joke about Murphy's Law when I feel the first raindrop hit my nose. Then another. Then a whole scattered handful that makes me look up at the sky with growing alarm.
