Whisper Falls (6 page)

Lucky rose back up to tower over her, the move reminding her how big he was. “Yep.”

“Why?” she asked simply. She really wanted to know.

“When you’re on a bike,” he said without a moment’s hesitation, “nothing matters but the wind and the view and the machine underneath you. It’s the perfect combination of
freedom
and
power
and
speed
. And . . .” He stopped, squinting slightly, appearing to think it over. “And a little bit of danger. Just enough to make you feel . . . alive, ya know?”

Something about the way he’d described riding made Tessa pull in her breath, and it wasn’t just the unexpected eloquence or the fact that this was by far the greatest number of words she’d ever heard him utter at one time. For most of her life, she would have had no idea what he was talking about, about a bit of danger making you feel alive. But now she did. Just since meeting Lucky.

Maybe
that
was the fascination he held for her. Every time she was around him, that little bit of danger hovering about him kept her on edge, kept her blood racing, her muscles tensed. So she said, softly, “Yeah. Yeah, I
do
know.”

He gave his head an inquisitive tilt. “You ever rode a motorcycle, hot stuff?”

She shook her head, blushing a little. “No. I just . . . know what you mean. Another way.”

Thankfully, he didn’t ask what way. But her heart nearly stopped when, instead, he said, “Wanna go for a ride with me, babe?”

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind . . .

Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre

Four

E
verything inside Tessa went warm as her heart began to pound. At any other time in her life, she’d have turned him down. She’d never particularly had the urge to ride a motorcycle. And if forced into a discussion on the topic, she’d have likely said she thought they were kind of dangerous.

But right now, she just swallowed nervously.

Then heard herself say, “Um, yeah. Sure.”

Of course, Rachel and Amy would think she was crazy. And maybe she was. But it was only a ride, right? And not like he was going to kidnap her or anything. And just like everything else about this guy, something about the notion of riding a motorcycle with him excited her—probably more than it should.

In response, Lucky’s eyes slid down her body and all the way back up, making her tingle anew. “You’ll have to lose the skirt, though.”

Her eyebrows shot up and her cheeks went as hot as the rest of her. “Huh?”

Lucky just gave a low chuckle. “You’ll have to change into something else, hot stuff,” he clarified. “Like blue jeans. And some boots if you have them.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding, trying to act all cool about it after the fact. God, why did she behave like such a dolt around him? “I’ll, um, go do that.”

She set down the portfolio that held her sketch pad and mechanical pencil on a nearby table before turning to go. But then she stopped and looked back at him. “Um, before I do this, you don’t have . . . a girlfriend or anything in the house, do you?” She pointed in that direction. “Or a . . . Mrs. Romo?”

The way he lowered his chin told her he found the question ludicrous. “A Mrs. Romo? Not me, babe. No way.”

“I just wouldn’t want anyone to beat me up or anything,” she said before weighing it.

He arched one brow. “You figure any woman with me would be the type to beat you up?”

Maybe she should have felt bad, or embarrassed, but she simply shrugged. “Well, look at you. You’re . . .”

“What?”

Dangerous. Hot. A little scary.
“A tough guy. And I’m . . .”

“What?” he asked again.

Nothing like you. And more delicate than I want to be.
She settled on, “I’m kind of small.”

“Well, you got nothin’ to worry about, hot stuff,” he said with a quick wink she felt all the way to her toes.

And as for what he’d just said, she wished that were true. But at least there
wasn’t
a biker babe inside ready to claw her eyes out. Which meant at least one worry abated when it came to Lucky Romo.

Ten minutes later she was re-ascending the hill in jeans tucked into her one pair of boots—simple, black, with heels. She feared she looked a bit like a pirate, but again, tried to act confident when she met back up with Lucky outside the garage.

“All set?” he asked.

Her eyes were drawn instantly to the bike he’d pulled out into his driveway. “I think.” She was no motorcycle connoisseur, but this one struck her as attractive, the sleek body black with simple red flames painted on, the undercarriage parts done in bright, shiny chrome accentuated with two long, curving pipes.

Without another word, Lucky turned to her, lowering a helmet smoothly onto her head and buckling a strap beneath her chin—so that now she felt like an
alien
pirate. And her head suddenly grew heavy from the added weight. Then he slid a black helmet painted with more intricate red and orange flames onto his own head and situated himself on the bike. Upon starting it up, a loud and familiar sound—
plm
,
plm
,
plm
,
plm
,
plm
—vibrated from the pipes as Lucky yelled over top of the noise, “Climb on.”

It was awkward hoisting her leg over the seat, especially since it was curved in such a way as to push their bodies instantly together, her front against his warm, broad back. The contact shocked her and she automatically tried to lean away, but it didn’t make much difference—she was now officially stuck like glue to Lucky Romo.

“Um, what do I hold onto?” she asked loudly over his shoulder.

He turned his head just enough that she could see his eyes within the helmet. “Me.” Then he faced forward again, instructing her, “Wrap your arms around my waist.”

A
whoosh
of breath escaped her at the very notion. Plus she was close enough to smell him now—he gave off a clean yet musky scent that instantly appealed. She slid her hands gingerly around his torso, unable not to press her breasts into his back. And when everything inside her vibrated madly, she wasn’t sure if it was from the rumbling machine between her legs or the big, sexy man she was plastered against.

Lucky casually reached down on both sides of the bike, hooking his big hands behind her calves, lifting them until her feet were balanced on pegs. “Don’t move ’em,” he said, then asked, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she replied. Although her legs now officially felt as tingly hot as the rest of her.

And then the bike was easing down his driveway until he turned out onto Whisper Falls Road—and within seconds, they were racing through the twists and turns that had never seemed quite so twisty and turny to Tessa before. She held on to Lucky tight out of sheer instinct and wondered if he could feel the beat of her heart against the back of his rib cage. She suddenly heard the Foo Fighters singing about a new day rising, a brand new sky, and she realized the motorcycle had a sound system—the music encased her, her and Lucky both, as much as the wind that whipped around them now.

As they sped up on a straight stretch, Tessa sensed the power of the motorcycle beneath them yet at the same time felt as if they were flying, happy to take in the rough breeze on her face, the spring air buffeting her skin. Then the bike dipped into the shade—tree limbs bursting with new leaves arced heavy across the road to create a canopy, leaving the pavement dappled with sunlight. She found the ride at once frightening and exhilarating, and the motorcycle’s heavy vibrations echoed all through her to leave her both aroused and alert, peeking over Lucky’s shoulder as he took each bend in the road.

Latching on to him, she couldn’t help feeling as if she was . . . in his care, somehow under his protection. And normally, Tessa didn’t like letting anyone take care of her, but this felt different. Like holding on to Lucky provided . . . a little safety amidst the danger. And like, in some small way, she was doing exactly what the Foo Fighters’ song said: learning to live again.

L
ucky pulled his bike back into the garage, away from his work area, next to his weight bench. He focused on kicking the sidestand down and then putting the helmets away. They weren’t tasks that particularly
required
focus, but he needed to concentrate on something besides Tessa in those sexy jeans that showed off all her petite curves.

Because what the hell was he doing? What had he been thinking—asking her to take a ride? She wasn’t a fender bunny, and this wasn’t Milwaukee. He was home now and everything here was different.

And it wasn’t just about him, either. His past in California was ten years and two thousand miles away—but sometimes he was forced to remember that a few threats still technically hung over his head. So it had been one thing to pick up a girl in a biker bar in Milwaukee and spend the night with her, or even a couple of weeks if that’s what he felt like. But it was another to be flirting with his dainty, delicate, good-girl neighbor, someone who would probably be a presence in his life for a while, quite possibly a
long
while. Enough time had passed that he felt it was mostly safe to be near his family—but it still felt risky somehow to contemplate getting even remotely close to a woman. Or to even give the appearance that he was.

“Thanks for the ride,” Tessa said, standing behind him. When he turned to face her, her cheeks were flushed prettily and her eyes bright—she looked more relaxed with him than he’d ever seen her. Shit. Now his focus was squarely back on
her
, like it or not.

“So you had a good time,” he said quietly—more of a statement than a question.

She nodded. “It was kind of scary . . . but cool, too.”

Double
shit. That made him like her. That she could
get
what was great about riding a Harley. And that she wasn’t afraid to face her fears. “Um, you wanna go inside, look at the rooms I want fixed up?” It seemed best to move things along here.

Still, as he let her in the side door of the adjoining house, then led her down the hall, he couldn’t avoid acknowledging that his jeans had gotten tighter. Around his groin. Hell. He’d been trying to ignore that fact, hoping it would go away, especially now that she was no longer wrapped around him. But nope, he remained hard. Just from feeling her body up against his, her firm breasts against his back. Just from having her slender arms around his waist.

Damn. She was cute as hell, and all kinds of sexy, but he still hadn’t seen that coming—that he’d get
that
worked up,
that
easily. Maybe if he had, he’d have been smart enough not to suggest that ride. As the hallway opened into the living room, he tried to shake it off and get back to business. “I want this room and the kitchen redone,” he said. Because he had a lot more important stuff going on in his life right now than getting a hard-on from a ride with his pretty little neighbor.
Think about the future here. Think about what matters.

She stood next to him, studying the space—the two rooms connected by a bar counter—and nodding. And he could tell already that she saw the rooms in a different way than he did, with some sort of decorator’s eye. She appeared deep in concentration, like she was analyzing every piece of furniture, every wall and window. “What sort of look are you going for?”

Damn, how did he answer this? “Something . . . normal,” he finally said.

She drew her gaze from the built-in cabinetry in one corner of the living room to peer up at him. “Normal?”

He squinted lightly. “Like . . . normal, average people live here. Not like a biker lives here.”

She blinked and asked, “Why?”

Aw, hell. He hadn’t expected her to question it. He’d actually figured it would make her job easier and that she’d just go with it.

“Because, I mean, you
are
a biker,” she went on. “And your home should reflect your personal taste.”

And normally he might have agreed with that statement, but not right now. “I just want it to be a place where . . . anybody would be comfortable. I want it to be . . . homey,” he finally concluded—even if he had no idea where he’d plucked that word from, since it wasn’t in his usual vocabulary.

“Homey,” she repeated.

He just pressed his lips together and nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. She’d probably find out why soon enough, but he just wasn’t ready to share something so big and personal yet.

“You know, there’s such a thing as blending styles. I’m completely confident I can make this a comfortable room for the average person and still reflect
you
.”

He wasn’t sure he bought that, so he said, “How?”

“You just leave that to me.” She opened her leather binder and looked up at him. “What colors do you like having in your home?”

“Um—black?” he suggested.

She gave a short nod, clearly not surprised, and seemed to be writing it down. “What else?”

Hmm. Even as a custom painter who appreciated color, he wasn’t a guy who sat around thinking about which ones he liked for “home decor.” “Uh, I guess I like red.”

Another short nod. “Any others?”

“Gray is okay.”

She pursed her lips slightly, but then scribbled some more and said, “I think I can work with those.”

“And make it look normal?”

She laughed at him then—which prompted him to say, “
What
?”

Giving her head a pretty tilt, she replied, “You just look like the last guy in the world who would be concerned with
normal
. You seem like a guy who would . . . you know, go your own way, do your own thing. So what’s with all the normal?”

Shit—she was going to pry about this? He kept it as simple as possible. “It’s just what I want, that’s all.” And he hoped it hadn’t come out too brusque.

Next, they moved to the kitchen and had a similar conversation. They discussed how much money he wanted to spend on the whole project and she said it sounded feasible if they used some of his current furniture, which she assured him would work fine.

Once she’d finished making notes, she said, “Anything else? Any other spaces you’d like changes to?”

He hadn’t thought too deeply into this—he had a lot of other stuff on his mind these days—but said, “Maybe my bedroom. Not right now, but maybe down the road.”

“Can I see it?” she asked. And her tone was perfectly professional, ordinary—but he didn’t miss the slight blush staining her cheeks after she spoke. At just the mere mention of his bedroom. And hell—he started getting hard again. That had almost faded away as they’d talked business—but that quick, it returned.

As he led her back down the hall, past a couple of open doorways—the bathroom and laundry room—she peeked into both, then followed him into his room. And then it felt awkward even to him—a guy who didn’t usually
do
awkward. Because she was blushing again and he was straining behind his zipper, and it would have been too damn easy to just lay her down on the bed they were both staring at and give her a
reason
to blush. But instead he cleared his throat and said, “This is it.”

“Okay . . . um . . .” God, she sounded all breathy, sexy. “What would you like to do in here?”

And he couldn’t help it—he grinned. Probably wolfishly. Because there were a
lot
of things he’d like to do in here—with her.

Her skin flushed brighter in response, her complexion beginning to look dewy now, like maybe she’d begun to sweat a little. “I mean, what look are you interested in for the room?”