Page 30 of Voyeur Café

She moves to put her hands on her hips but ends up propping my helmet on her curvy waist instead. “Don’t you work on motorcycles?”

“An engine’s an engine. I’ll show you.” I wave at her to come closer, which she ignores, and turn the key in the ignition again. “You hear that clicking?” I ask, and she nods. “That means it’s not turning over. I have to get something out of my shop, so I can confirm. Come with me?”

She tilts her head to the side, making her precious attempt at a glare. “Why?”

“So you’re not alone in a dark parking lot.”

Surprisingly, she follows without argument. We get a screwdriver and a second helmet from my shop, which she eyes warily but doesn’t say anything about when we set them on the asphalt by my bike.

I hand the flashlight to Allie when we reach her car’s open hood. “Will you point it right here?” I ask, tapping the starter with the screwdriver. She holds it up and presses in closer to me inorder to see what I’m doing.Closer than necessary.The thought settles nicely into my mind. “If you’re ever doing this by yourself, make sure you use something with a plastic or rubber handle like this one. Otherwise, it’s a good way to get electrocuted.”

She looks up at me with intent teal-green eyes, bringing our faces only inches apart and swinging the flashlight off its target. I hold her gaze, reaching across her to wrap my palm around her delicate hand, and direct the flashlight back to the starter. “Keep that there.” Her cheeks flush pinker. Memories of Grandad scolding me for not holding the flashlight correctly remind me to soften my tone, adding, “Please.”

She blinks a few times before she turns away and holds the flashlight steady. I use the rod of the screwdriver to connect the positive and negative posts on the starter. The same clicks sound, as I thought they would.

“Is that good or bad?” she asks.

“Pretty good. Means it’s not your ignition, which would be a pain in the ass to fix. Starters are a lot easier.” I make sure her hands are clear and shut the hood. “The part’s not hard to get. I can take care of it in the morning.”

“What?” She sounds bewildered and steps back, looking up at me. “No, you don’t have to fix this. I’ll get it figured out.”

“I don’t have to, but I’m going to.”

“It’s fine. I can handle it.” She looks around, like a different solution is going to materialize in one of the empty parking spaces.

“Hiring a mechanic is handling it, Allie.” I don’t have any intention of accepting her money, but she doesn’t need to know that right now.

She purses her lips and props her hands on her hips in a familiar stance, the look on her face flashing from irritation, to concentration, to deep thought, and back to irritation before taking a deep, exaggerated breath. “Okay, thank you.”

“Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.” I take a step toward my bike, but she doesn’t follow.

“Where’s your truck?”

“At home. I dropped Betty off a few hours ago and came back on my motorcycle.”

She plants her feet firmly on the ground, hands going to her hips. The strong stance makes me grin. “There’s no way I’m getting on that thing.”

“Why not?”

Her mouth drops open, like the answer should be obvious. “Because motorcycles are dangerous.”

“You have nothing to worry about. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Safe?Safe?” She juts her chin forward, voice incredulous. “Have you ever had, like, even one conversation with an ER nurse? That is a sexy death machine.”

“Sexy death machine? I like that.”

“You are impossible.” She throws her hands up, but the act is more teasing than frustrated. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“You don’t have to ride the bike if you don’t want to. I’ll go home and get my truck, but you have to promise to wait for me inside.”

She steps closer to me. “You can’t go home for your truck. That’s ridiculous.”

“Allie, you’re afraid to ride the motorcycle. I’m not going to force you onto it. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

That does it.“I am not afraid,” she says, indignantly enunciating each syllable.

“You’re not?”

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