Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Hey,” he says with a small nod. Apparently, he’s not much of a conversationalist, but that’s fine, because I’m not looking to do much talking tonight.
“Hey.”
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I am, but there’s no place nearby that’s open this late.”
“I’ve got you covered,” he says. “Do you need to take your car home? I can follow you there.”
“I walked here.”
Shane throws a leg over his bike. “Have you ever ridden?” he asks.
“I have,” I say with a nod.
He hands me a helmet, and I put it on after pulling my hair back into a ponytail. When I’m ready to ride, I straddle the bike and scoot snug against him, wondering if he can feel the heat between my legs through his denim.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks, his torso twisting under my hands as he turns to check on me.
Comfortable isn’t the right word for how I’m feeling. I’m excited, lit up inside at the prospect of what the next few hours may bring, thrilled that our time together is starting with a perfect excuse for me to wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. “I’m great,” I say, pressing my fingers into his firm ab muscles, wondering what he would do if I were to slide my hands under the fabric of his shirt.
His body is just as strong and hard as it looks, with the added appeal of a sharp, clean scent that may as well be pure pheromones, based on the response it’s eliciting from my body.
I’ve always thought I might like to own a motorcycle someday, but driving one would never compare to being a passenger up against a man like this.
Shane pulls out of the lot and onto the island’s main street. I expect he’s going to head toward the bridge leading to the mainland to go in search of late-night fast food, but he turns in the opposite direction.
Though the man gives off vibes of speed and danger, he’s actually a sensible driver and makes me feel safe. His body is thrilling enough; I don’t need the added boost of adrenaline that would come from reckless driving.
Instead of taking me to a restaurant or his home, he drives along the curving road that leads to one of the island’s scenic overlooks. The panoramic view is best during the day, but the moon is out, and its reflected light is shimmering on the ocean, straight out to the horizon. When Shane turns off the bike’s engine, I can hear the waves crashing below us.
I’m still not sure where food is going to come into the picture — and honestly, after hugging his body during the ride, I have other things on my mind — until he pulls a white bag from a storage pouch over his bike’s gas tank and leads me to a bench along the walkway.
“Would you like the cheeseburger or the chicken sandwich?” he asks. There are two bundles in his big hand, each wrapped in white paper.
“They both sound good. Cheeseburger, I guess.”
He unwraps one to check its contents, then hands me the other.
“Where are these from?” I ask.
“Dave’s. Do you know it?” When I shake my head, he says, “It’s a little hole-in-the-wall place in a plaza across the Four Points bridge. I got these just before they closed tonight.”
Since we weren’t meeting until midnight, he could’ve easily just gotten dinner for himself earlier. It seems like Shane is thoughtful as well as being sinfully hot.
“My god, this is good,” I say, after I take a big bite. It’s still warm and has a perfect ratio of meat to cheese to toasted bun.
Shane grins at me as he chews a mouthful of the chicken. “There’re fries too,” he says, tilting the bag toward me.
We eat in silence for a while, gradually moving into conversation as we near the last bites of our sandwiches.
“So you work in construction,” I say before bending a fry into my mouth.
Shane wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “Among other things.”
“Like what?” I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he was a part-time model or a member of the military reserve.
“Property development,” he says.
I don’t know exactly what that entails, but it sounds mildly impressive.
“What do you do at Rusty’s?” he asks before I can frame a follow-up question.
“I’m a waitress.”
“Been there long?”
I go for another French fry. “Almost two years.”
“Do you like it?” He reaches into the bag while I’m still fishing in it, the back of his hand brushing against mine.
“It’s a job. The people I work with are nice.”
“That’s important,” he says, nodding. “And you live here on the island?”
“My whole life.”
“Nice,” he says.
“How about you?” I ask before finishing off my burger.
“I live in Whitman now, but I grew up inland, in the middle of the state.”
“Last one,” I say, holding up the only fry I could find in the bag. “Want to split it?” The fries were even better than the delicious burger.