by Ella Fox
He glances back over his shoulder. “You good to go?”
I bite my lip and nod, hoping I don’t sound too breathless when I answer with a simple, “Yep.”
When the bike starts moving, I automatically tighten my grip—both with my arms and thighs—around him. The vibration of the engine isn’t helping one little bit. Under my black leggings and silky plum colored thong, my clit tingles with need. I burrow into him even more when he pulls out onto the road. My whole life I’ve known people who are afraid of motorcycles. I’m just the opposite. My grandfather had me on my first quad when I was seven, I got my first dirt bike at thirteen, and I have a motorcycle license. I adore the adrenaline rush that comes from being exposed to the elements as the wind whips past my body. For all that, there’s a different kind of exhilaration and an even more potent surge of endorphins from being on a bike behind Donovan Beckett.
Once we’re out of the main part of town, he opens the bike up a little more. Our bodies move in harmony, leaning into turns as he guides the bike along the twisty back roads that lead to the motel. I can hardly believe I’m sitting behind Donovan and touching him—and that he’s letting me. The high of it is nearly indescribable—almost like I’m drunker from being this close to Donovan than from the alcohol I drank tonight.
I wish I didn’t need to wear this helmet. Safety first and all that, but I’d pay good money to bury my face against the soft cotton of his shirt. My mind wanders back to how familiar he and Julie are. What is that about? The way he treats her is about five thousand percent more affectionate than I’ve ever believed he could be. After turning it over in my head for a few minutes, I have an ah-ha moment. It has to be because he’s been living at the hotel since she was a young teen. Julie’s had seven years to work her way past his rough exterior. Also, it was probably easier for her since she was young when he moved in. It’s not like he could be a standoffish prick to a kid.
Satisfied with that explanation, I focus on the feel of Donovan’s abs beneath my hands. I’m a realist, and I know the odds are against him letting me on the back of his bike again, so I’m going to enjoy it while I can. Beneath the helmet, my smile is a mile wide, but it turns to a frown as we take the turn into Miller’s. Granted, we didn’t speak—without headsets it’s not as if we could have without yelling—but I’ve more than enjoyed this ride.
I realize something is off when he parks the bike but doesn’t move or speak. I’m a glutton for punishment, which means I release the grip I have on him very slowly. His stomach is like a granite slab beneath my hands and the tenseness has returned to his frame. Sitting up straight, I take the helmet off, lean in close again and hand it off. He takes it from me without a word. So much for our moment. Settling my hands on his shoulders, I lift up and off the bike. I wait a beat for him to get off too, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t move at all. Scowling, I shrug out of his leather jacket and hold it out. He doesn’t even look at me as he takes it. I wait a beat, then two. When he does nothing, I reach into my side body purse and pull out my room key. The man of marble doesn’t spare me a glance. Any other time, maybe, I’d let it go. Not this time, though. Even knowing that part of the reason for my attitude is down to alcohol, I’m still going for it.
Planting my right hand on my hip, I glare at Donovan’s downturned head. “Do I smell like hardboiled eggs or something?”
His head rocks back in surprise before he turns to face me. “What?”
“You’re acting like there’s something offensive about me and I am over it, jerkbag. First of all, let me point out that I never asked you for a ride. That was Julie, and if you had a problem with it, you should’ve said no.”
There’s maybe eighteen inches between us once he gets off the bike, but I stand my ground.
“It was no problem to bring you back,” he mutters.
“Bullshit. You were fine and now you’re not. Something about me obviously riles you—”
He cuts me off by resting his hand over my mouth. “Stop, because you’re making a mountain out of a fuckin’ molehill.” Removing his hand, he stares down at me with an expression of exasperation. “Don’t make it more than it is.”
“What is it, exactly?” I challenge. “Is there a particular reason you can’t be nice?”
The question earns me a raised eyebrow. “I thought I was being nice by bringing you back to the motel.”
Ugh! He’s so frustrating. “That was nice,” I agree. “It’s the after that sucks. Everything was good before you morphed back into the man of ice.”
He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest. “In case you didn’t notice I’m not exactly a people person.”
I snort out a laugh. “Yeah, I’d noticed.”
“Point is, I’m doing what I can to be…” trailing off, he makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.
“Friendly?” I supply.
“I was thinking neighborly.”
Just when I think he can’t frustrate me any more than he already does, he says some crap like that.
“Would it be so awful to be friends with me?” I ask, affronted. “I think I’m pretty kick ass, thank you very much.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Just that quickly, the tension has been diffused. “It wouldn’t be awful but c’mon, Shortstack. Why would you even want to be friends with someone like me?”
“Because unlike some people I won’t mention—cough, I’m talking about you, cough—I actually like people. Plus, we live right next door to each other. It just makes sense. You should at least try.”
He stares at me for a few seconds like he’s considering it. Finally, he nods. “Fine. I’ll try.”
I struggle not to look stunned that he’s amenable to anything that involves not being a dick. Damn, maybe I’m dreaming all of this. Or maybe hell is freezing over and I’m the one person who didn’t get the memo. That sounds about right, actually. Either way, I think this is as big a concession as anyone could get from him, so I’m going to put it in the win column. I half consider hugging him just to be funny, but we definitely aren’t there yet. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’d swoon against his chest, which would be embarrassing as hell.
“Glad we worked that out,” I say in my most carefree tone. “I’m going to go ward off a hangover by drinking a bottle of water, eating a peanut butter sandwich, and taking some ibuprofen before I fall into bed. Thanks for the ride home, possible friend.”
He shakes his head in a way that suggests I’ve just amused him. “Goodnight, Eden.”
I do my very best to look disaffected by the husky tone of his voice, even though inside I’m doing drunken cartwheels of joy. Turning, I head for my room. After I unlock and push it open, I look back over my shoulder and smile at him.
“Night, Donovan.”
10
Eden
Walking toward check-in to start my shift, I lift my nose in the air and take a deep breath. If this scent of autumn could be bottled, I’d drink it. The plethora of trees that surround the property have been steadily dropping their leaves and I’ve been enjoying watching the shedding of orange, yellow and burgundy foliage each day. There’s nothing quite like fall. The sights, the scents, and the flavor of pumpkin spice; everything comes together perfectly to make me happy. If I could live somewhere that had fall year around, I’d do it.
Stepping into the check-in area, I take another whiff and then smile as the scent fills my senses. Margie chooses a new candle from the shop down on Main Street to scent the lobby every few weeks. The last one was candied pear while this new one is a mouth wateringly delicious apple smell that’s somehow richer and deeper than any other apple candle I’ve ever been around. Walking around the desk, I wave at Margie. “Incredible smell,” I tell her. “What’s this one called?”
“Buttery caramel apple pie.”
I sniff again and make a sound of approval as I take a seat next to Margie. “It’s phenomenal. I’m thinking the addition of the buttery sc
ent is what makes it stand out. I’m definitely getting one on my next trip into town.”
Margie grins as she gestures to the green leather envelope in front of her. “Your next trip in will be in a hot minute,” she laughs, “since I just finished the deposit. I got a message from Melissa down at The Cuppa. Her delivery driver is sick as a dog, so I’d be thrilled if you’d stop and pick up this week’s order of coffee up.”
Another perk of working here is that Margie and Ron have an incredible coffee and tea area in the lobby for guests. Since moving here, I’ve gotten addicted to the freshly ground deliciousness that comes from The Cuppa. Stopping in to pick up coffee will give me an excuse to get a hazelnut mocha macchiato, and I’ll never turn down an opportunity to have one of those.
As I power up the computer on the desk, I ask, “Is the driver sick with the flu that’s got Julie at home?”
“It was the first question I asked Melissa when she called and sadly the answer is yes. The symptoms are just the same as hers. One-oh-two temperature, sore throat, body aches, and head feels like it’s going to explode. I hope you’ve been keeping up with the vitamin c I got you. I truly believe that’ll keep the rest of us from catching whatever this is.”
I nod as I raise my right hand. “I solemnly swear I’ve been taking two thousand milligrams a day and like you, I’ve been washing my hands almost nonstop.”
“Keep up with it,” she orders. “I worry that if you get it, you’ll blow away. Luisa lost ten pounds when she had it and I can tell Julie is already down at least five. The good news is I finally got her to eat some chicken noodle soup and some crackers last night. We need to keep you healthy because you don’t have an available pound to lose.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes. “I’ll have you know that I’ve put on weight since I moved here because of my addiction to Kandy Land and the pastries at The Cuppa, not to mention the fried chicken you and Ron bring in every week.”
She gives me a dubious look, but I’m saved from one of her sweet motherly lectures when the phone rings. I wink at her as I pick it up. “It’s a beautiful day at Miller’s, this is Eden speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi Eden, is Margie around?”
Recognizing the voice of Margie’s best friend Stella, I smile. They talk on the phone at some point every single day and I think it’s the cutest thing ever. Margie says the only reason they don’t spend all their time together is because Stella lives an hour away and doesn’t drive long distances due to anxiety. I’d love to meet her because the two of them sound like a riot when they get talking on the phone.
“Morning, Stella. Margie’s right here. Hold on a sec.”
As I press hold, Margie pulls out the top drawer, pulls the keys out for the Miller’s Volvo station wagon and hands them to me before she grabs the deposit envelope off the counter and gives me that, too.
“Do you mind if I take my car instead? I haven’t gone anywhere in a few days and I don’t like to leave her sitting for too long.”
Margie chuckles and shakes her head. “Of course I don’t mind, sweet girl. You take better care of that car than most people take of their children. Enjoy your drive—take your time and don’t rush,” she instructs.
I smile at her and nod as I grab my purse and then walk around the desk to make my way through the lobby and out the front door. As I get into the glassed-in entry, I see Donovan arriving at the door. I do my best to keep the over-the-top smile that my lips want to form off my face when he steps through the entrance. Guess who’s wearing all black? Spoiler alert: it’s not me. It’s him, of course. Today it’s a black hoodie, black jeans, and his black work boots and as usual, he looks like a mountain my body wants to climb. I’m trying to play it cool since this is the first time I’ve seen him since the night he brought me home from the bar five days ago. I know he’s been gone because his truck hasn’t been in the lot and when I checked, his bike was back under a tarp in the garage. Yes, I went and looked. No, I don’t think that makes me a weirdo. At least I hope not.
Pausing, he looks me up and down before his eyes meet mine. “Hey.”
The way he looked at me felt lustful, something that has my pulse zinging. I ignore that and choose to focus on the low but friendly tone of his voice. “Hey there,” I respond.
He gestures from the purse on my shoulder to the deposit envelope in my hand. “You headed out?”
“Yep, going to run some errands for Margie.”
“Mind dropping me off at the Ford dealership just outside town? I was gonna have Margie do it, but since she’s sending you out, she won’t leave the desk.”
Holy crap. He’s basically volunteering to spend time with me. Motioning toward the door with the keys, I grin and do my best to appear nonchalant. “Your chariot awaits.”
The butterflies in my stomach do flip-flops when he smiles for a full half second before he turns and opens the door again. “After you,” he says. I suck in a breath as I brush past him, the warmth of his rich scent wrapping around me like a blanket. I take back what I said about the lobby candle being the best thing ever. I was wrong—the best scent I’ve ever come across is Donovan Beckett. I’m not sure if it’s body wash or cologne but whatever the case is, it’s lethal to my equilibrium. Hoping that he hasn’t noticed the effect he has on me I tuck my head down and walk with great purpose to where my car is parked in front of my room. He stays silent and matches my pace.
After unlocking my door, I climb in and reach over to unlock the passenger door for Donovan. The Jeep is by no means small but with him inside it suddenly seems more compact than usual. He lets out a hmm as I turn the key and start the engine. Looking over, I cock my head. “What’s up?”
He gestures to the dash before he reaches back with his right hand and grabs the seatbelt. “Even though I could obviously see that the outside of the car was in great condition I had no idea the interior would be so pristine. Car’s about thirty or so years old, yeah?”
I chuckle as I click my seatbelt in. “Almost—it’s twenty-seven, to be exact. But yeah, my grandfather was hardcore about car maintenance and I’ve carried that forward.”
He looks over with interest as I put the car into reverse. “It’s cherry,” he says, his tone indicating he’s impressed. “All original?”
I nod as I put the car into drive and navigate up the drive toward the street. “Yep. I replaced the transmission about twenty thousand miles ago and the muffler was replaced shortly before I got it. Other than little things like fuses and the motor for the power window on my door, she’s all original.”
He gestures to the tape player. “Surprised you haven’t changed the radio out for something new. I know how you like your music,” he says, his tone letting me know he’s teasing me.
“If I altered the dash in order to fit a radio, it would devalue the car, so I have a blue tooth speaker in my purse to listen to music.”
“So keeping it in its original condition is important to you then.”
“Classic cars that are kept in good condition are worth significantly more than those that have been fitted with options that weren’t available at the time it came off the showroom floor,” I explain. “What I’m doing with this car is considered preservation, and that’s where the value is.”
“Does that mean you’re looking to sell it?”
I give an emphatic shake of my head. “No. My grandfather bought this brand new in 1991, the last year this model was in production. Unless it’s life or death, I can’t ever imagine parting with this car. Eventually, I’ll get something a little” —I lean toward him to whisper so the car doesn’t hear me and get angry— “newer.”
“Why are you whispering?” he asks.
“Trying not to hurt her feelings.”
“You know she is a piece of machinery, right?”
Cocking one brow, I spare a quick glance at it him. “Sure—and I also know that like most things, cars have a personality. This one has treated me well and I return the favor. It fe
els like cheating to even think of confining her to a garage. As long as she’s safe and reliable—and as long as it isn’t damaging the car to drive it so frequently—I’ll keep things the way they are. Sadly there’s a reason you don’t see a Studebaker on the road every day. At a certain point, frequent driving will start to take a toll. I can keep it going for another twenty years for sure, but if I’m doing that to the overall detriment of the car, I’ll destroy all chances at longevity.”
The way he’s studying me is a lot like what I’d imagine being under a microscope would feel like.
“You’re really passionate about cars. Like, really,” he stresses.
“I am. My career choice was always equally divided between hospitality and cars. Even now when I watch the Barrett Jackson auto auction, I’m tempted to try my hand at a restoration on the side. Flipping cars is a very profitable endeavor if you know what you’re doing. Maybe someday I’ll own something like Miller’s where I can have the best of both worlds,” I babble. “Motel in the front, garage in the back and I’d be living the dream. What about you? What’s your hobby?”
The silence stretches, the seconds passing as he says nothing. Slowing down, I quickly glance at him. “No hobbies?”
“I, uh, used to make furniture.”
“Used to?”
“Yeah.”
I wait to see if he’ll offer an explanation. When he doesn’t, I decide to press. “Why did you stop?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him shrug as he looks out the window. “Just did. You know how it is.”
I don’t, though. I can’t imagine that I’d ever stop working with cars or doing applique. I love my hobbies and have no intention of giving them up.
“What do you do for fun, Stretch?” I ask as I stop at one of the four traffic lights on Main Street.
“I don’t do fun,” he says, his voice cold and distant.
