Page 28 of One Secret

'Nope. Now, put it on,' he orders, slinging a leg over the bike and knocking up the kickstand.

I'd argue if it weren't for the maths. At least if I wear the helmet, it's two lives protected instead of one. Though I'm not a fan of Cyrus riding without one.

Settling the helmet in place, I adjust the straps and click them together under my chin. Cyrus, I'm flattered to notice, is staring at my chest.

'That the only jacket you have?'

Oh.

'It's August, Cyrus.' I sigh, feeling more than a little criticized this morning.

First Lily-Anne and her taking issue with my life choices. Now Cyrus and his negative review of my music tastes and wardrobe.

My jacket, Goddammit, is lightweight and comfortable for the time of year.

'It'll be cold on the bike,' he warns.

'The airport is twenty minutes away,' I point out. 'I'll be fine.'

Cyrus doesn't agree. He's already shrugging out of his riding jacket. Bracing the enormous machine between his thighs, he throws the jacket at me.

The hard padding along the spine makes it heavier than I'm expecting and I almost drop the damn thing.

'Put it on,' he says, before focusing on the bike. The front console lights up and the softest, barest of hums fills the air.

'What about you?' I ask with hesitation.

He's wearing only a loose, grey T-shirt.

'"The airport is twenty minutes away,"' Cyrus mocks, throwing a challenging look back over his shoulder at me. '"I'll be fine."'

I glare at him.

Fine. Screw you, then.

I shrug into his jacket and zip up what's supposed to be a fitted garment. On me, there's more than enough space. Particularly in the chest department.

It's just insult to fucking injury, this morning.

Although, the scent of the leather goes a long way to soothing my wounded pride. The jacket smells of warm lacquer, softening beeswax... and the dark, spicy heat of Cyrus's body.

I glance back up at the apartment, where I spy Lily-Anne peering down through the blinds. I make a two-fingered salute in her direction.

'Get on the fucking bike, Darcy,' Cyrus nags coldly.

'All right, I'm coming... Jeez.'

Whatever flew up Cyrus's butt this morning seems wedged there for the long haul. Which bodes well for us playing the loved-up couple for the next few days.

Then again, I muse—as I swing up behind Cyrus and try to negotiate a space for my leg beside a long, hard case lashed against the side of his bike—perhaps him being a total jerkface the entire time will make it easier to say goodbye at the end of all this.

Not that we're thinking about that, I remind myself.

Not the future, not the past.

Cyrus steers the bike free of the curb and we're suddenly rushing along the vicolo. Lampposts, storefronts, and parked cars fly past in a blur.

We're keeping our attention right here and now, I remind myself.

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