Page 9 of Bred Winner

I’m not sure what to say to that other than ‘good’ or ‘glad to hear it’—neither of which feels right given this abnormal situation.

Tristan doesn’t wait for me to reply.“I’ll talk to you on Sunday, babe. Have fun. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

An hour later, right after noon, I get a text from Oakley.“Hello, love. How’s my bird today?”

Oakley has dual citizenship, spending most of his formative years near Cambridge, where his mother lived after she divorced his father, a US Air Force pilot. So, on top of a light British accent, he often slips English colloquialisms into his speech. He’s called meloveandbirdsince the day we met.

“I’m doing good. How are you?”

“I’m excited about tonight.”

“Which part?” ??

I can’t stop myself from teasing him. While Tristan is a universal tease—the guys have called him Playboy over the years—Oakley has always reserved his most friendly flirting for me and me alone. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him make a move on another woman. I’ve never even seen him really talk to one. Even when the four of us would go out, and I was dating someone, Oakley hung back and watched while Tristan and Coen did the schmoozing.

“Which part do you think?”??

“You naughty boy. Even though I’m a sure thing, aren’t you going to wine and dine me first?”

“Ah, love. You know me better than that.”

“That’s true, I do. Are you picking me up at seven?”

“Absolutely. It’s supposed to be nice tonight. Seventy degrees at sunset. Fancy a ride?”

I grin, excitement building in my belly. Oakley doesn’t bring his motorcycle out nearly as often as he used to, and I love going for rides with him. “Yes!”

“Brilliant. Dress in layers. Even though the weatherman says clear skies tonight, you know how Colorado is.”

“I’ll be waiting with bells and layers on.”

“Until tonight, love.”

I think I’m going to burst from excitement. Checking my watch, I’m thankful it’s almost two. Just five more hours to go.

* * *

A few minutes past seven, I jump out my front door as soon as I hear Oakley’s Triumph pull into the parking lot. He flashes me a shy smile and a more confident wink, pulling a full-face helmet off the back of his bike and handing it to me.

“A helmet?” I pat the scarf I have tied firmly under my chin to protect my braids.

“Coen and Tristan practically came for my nuts when they realized I was taking you out on the bike. They conceded when I convinced them this might be one of the last times before you’re pregnant and it’s winter—leaving my nuts intact—but insisted I bring you a full helmet, chaps, and a leather jacket.”

“Jeez.” I roll my eyes. But honestly, it’s pretty sweet and not out of character for them to be super protective of me.

“Don’t tell the guys, but I’m not making you wear chaps. If you get cold, let me know, but otherwise I think you’ll be fine without them.” He slides the jacket on me and then wraps his gigantic hands around my waist, lifting me and setting me on the seat. Oakley is about the same height as Coen at six foot three and ten pounds lighter. He’s built like a rugby player—all broad muscle.

He pulls the helmet over my scarf and tilts the visor up while he fastens my chin strap.

I scrunch my nose and smile at the serious furrow of his brow.

“Is the fit okay?” he asks.

“It’s fine and probably for the best, even if it’s not as much fun.”

Oakley stares into my eyes for a few seconds and then leans forward, kissing me with a chaste press of his firm lips. “Let’s go.”

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