Page 101 of Rock Bottom Girl
“You okay? You sound kind of like you’re going to hyperventilate.”
I jammed the helmet over my beautiful hair. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You ever ride before?” he asked.
I shook my heavy, helmeted head.
“I’ll get on first, and then you climb on behind me. Make sure you hold on real tight,” he said with a devilish wink.
Ugh. I had a crush on my fake boyfriend. This was not good.
I waited until he swung a long leg over the seat and pulled on his helmet before awkwardly climbing on behind him.
“Hang on, pretty girl,” he said over the roar of the engine.
Grown-up Jake wasn’t into the stupid speed that Teenage Jake had been. We cruised out of Culpepper, and I clung gleefully to his back.
I, Marley Jean Cicero, was on the back of a motorcycle, hugging the hottest boy in town. It probably wasn’t healthy, but I felt that on some level, I had just healed an old wound.
Who knew having Jake between my thighs could make me feel so good? Oh, right. Everyone.
I wondered idly how many women he’d charmed the pants off of with a motorcycle ride. Then decided it really didn’t matter. I was here now. And for however long this lasted, I was going to soak it up.
We drove for another few miles, passing horses and buggies to the outskirts of Lancaster and then into the city itself. Jake took his time maneuvering the streets until—too soon in my opinion—he backed us into a spot on the street. He cut the engine and pulled off his helmet.
“We’re here.”
I slid off the back and yanked off my own helmet. I shook my hair out and heard a thunk and a muffled curse.
An early twenty-something had tripped over an easel sign in front of the frozen yogurt shop. He set it back up and hurried off, casting glances over his shoulder.
“She’s all mine,” Jake called good-naturedly after him.
“Jake!” I hissed.
“What? He saw you do the slow-motion hair toss out of a helmet and walked smack into the sign. It was fucking hilarious.”
I shoved a hand into my hair. It still felt appropriately poufy, and I hoped it wasn’t standing on end.
“He did not.”
“Totally did,” he argued. He took the helmet from me and lashed it to the bike. “You hungry?”
Looking at him in his leather jacket, his boots, his well-worn jeans, I was suddenly starving.
“I could eat.”
He reached for my hand and pulled me into him. His eyes were more serious than I was used to seeing them. “You look real good, Mars.”
“Thanks,” I said lamely. “So do you.”
He grinned and leaned in nice and slow. When his lips landed on mine, it was with a slow, sexy burn that had me insta-melting. Yeah, this Jake Weston wasn’t worried about getting anywhere fast. He was more interested in having fun along the way.
He pulled back, a cocky grin on his handsome face. “Come on. I’ll feed you.”
He fed me tacos from a truck parked in a courtyard between a coffee shop and a music store. We laughed and flirted our way through a couple of gourmet tacos and split a cold soda on a park bench. Food gone, we walked a few blocks around the downtown. A lot had changed since I lived in the area. A revitalization had slowly but surely claimed entire city blocks. Now there were co-working spaces and kitschy clothing stores nestled between farm-to-table restaurants and hip small businesses.
“You’re good at this,” I told him after he negotiated with a guy selling flowers from a sidewalk stand.
