He walked over to the open garage door and took in the sight before him. The motorcycle being parked. The kickstand knocked to the concrete by a black leather boot, and a woman dismounting the bike she’d been straddling.
He leaned against the wall, curious to watch. He was enjoying the view 100 percent and then some. Especially when the woman took off her helmet, shook out her hair once, twice, and a cascade of thick chestnut hair fell past her shoulders.
Of course.
Of course the owl-tatted girl rode a bike. She reached into the small storage space on the back of the bike and removed a sturdy navy-blue bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She gave him a curt wave, then glanced around the firehouse, maybe looking to see who else was there. Only him, and when it registered, she flashed a sweet smile as she walked up.
“Hey,” she said softly, and that one word was like a reminder that they’d shared something more the other night.
“Hey, Megan. Or should I call you Miss Megan?” he asked, picking up on Travis’s nickname for her.
“Please don’t call me Miss Megan. It took me long enough to train him off using both names. You know he used to call me by my middle name too when I was younger?”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Megan Margaret. He thought it was the height of hilarity—don’t ask me why—to call me Miss Megan Margaret. Made me crazy.”
“Why?”
“It’s so looonnnng,” she said, stretching out the word. “And it’s so proper. Miss Megan Margaret is for a woman who goes to finishing school, who wears white gloves and jaunty hats and goes sailing.”
He laughed. “I take it you don’t wear jaunty hats?”
She patted her head as if looking for a hat. Then shook her head. “Nope. But I do like to draw jaunty hats on tigers or giraffes.”
“Well, of course,” he said, not wanting to let go of the thread of the conversation, of how they’d somehow slid right back into the chatter that had marked their Friday night. He leaned against the side of the truck, and she followed suit. They were facing each other. “So if Miss Megan Margaret wears gloves and goes sailing, then Megan rides a bike and plans to be a tattoo artist?”
Her eyes widened, and she brought her finger to her lips. “Shhh…”
“Travis and Smith are out at a pancake breakfast and the other guys are upstairs. It’s just you and me.”
“I know, but still. I haven’t told him that. I haven’t really told anyone the details even though it’s been my dream.”
His lips curved in a small smile. “But you told me. At least a little bit,” he said softly, remembering how she’d said “someday soon” so wistfully when she talked about the opportunity to turn her drawings into body art.
“Yeah, I guess I did. I just found out that day that I landed an apprenticeship at a shop in Portland. Travis knows I’m going to Portland, but I haven’t told him yet about the job and how much I’ve wanted it. I think he figures if I don’t have a job he can convince me to stay here.” She met his eyes. Hers were wide, with a hint of vulnerability. “And there I go again. Telling you my hopes and dreams.”
“I like hearing them,” he said softly.
They weren’t touching; they were simply talking, but somehow this conversation was starting to feel as intimate as spending the night together. In both the things they’d held back and the things they’d shared—then and now—there was something between the two of them. A magnetic pull, maybe. Something that started with chemistry but was now turning dangerously close to…interest.
“I guess I like talking to you,” she admitted in a low voice.
“I like that, too,” he said, his gaze locked on hers. Her brown eyes met his, and she didn’t look away. Her lips parted ever so briefly, and she took a deep breath. Tension rolled through him as he held back, as he fought every instinct to step closer, to touch her cheek, her shoulder, to run his hand down her arm.
To learn more about her. He could see this playing out in his mind. They’d talk more, he’d ask her why she liked to draw, he’d learn more about this woman who already fascinated him. Then he’d thread his fingers through her hair, leaning in slowly, torturously close to her delicious earlobe. Her scent would fill his nostrils, the sweet, sexy smell of her citrus-y shampoo, and then her—her hair, her skin, her heat. He’d brush his lips gently against her neck, and she’d mold her body to his. He’d grasp her wrists, backing her up against the red cab of the truck, her hips jutting out invitingly. Kissing her more, exploring her mouth, her lips, her neck.