by Marie Harte
“What?” she snarled on the second ring.
“Ah, hi.”
“Oh. Hi, Gear.”
He frowned. “You sound tired. Everything okay?”
“You obviously haven’t seen Facebook or YouTube lately. Congrats. You’re viral.”
He cringed. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think they’d find me. They must have caught on to the Camry.”
“Ya think?”
He felt awful. So of course he went on the attack. “Who the hell told you to throw ice water at those reporters?”
“She was a bitch. She deserved it.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“And you should stop being such a pussy and defend yourself.”
“What?” Pussy? “I have,” he growled. “But no one listened.”
“Probably because every word out of your mouth is insulting to one faction or another. Well, I told the truth, defended your sorry ass, and I’m not sorry.”
“That’s two sorrys.” Great. Now he sounded like Thor.
“You know what? I’m going to drink, wolf down some pizza, and try to forget the verbal smackdown my brother already gave me. I can do without your shit too.” She hung up.
He swore and got dressed, then took his quieter bike, the one without the monster pipes, over to Sadie’s. No way in hell they’d end the conversation like that. It took him a good forty-five minutes to get to her place. Traffic in Seattle sucked worse every day, but he loved the city. His family lived nearby, and he’d made business contacts here—that probably wouldn’t last. But still.
Seattle, home to the Mariners, the Seahawks, and a damn good cup of coffee. It was home.
And the traffic still sucked ass.
He was grumbling to himself as he drove to Sadie’s apartment building. He parked down the street, hoping no one messed with the bike. It wasn’t his bling bike, more like a crotch rocket, but it blended and got the job done. He carried his helmet with him as he walked to her door, then realized he needed a key to get in the building. Shit.
A man exited, recognized him, and asked for an autograph, holding out an Entertainment Weekly magazine. Gear flushed. Who was he to sign anything? Still, he signed the thing, thanked the guy for watching, and felt good when the dude expressed sympathy for being screwed over. So one guy believed him. Then he was nice enough to open the door.
Gear hurriedly slipped through and soon found himself knocking on Sadie’s door. No way he’d call and give her a chance to ignore him again.
“Hold on, Elliot,” she yelled, opened the door, then tried to close it on him.
He pushed his way through and leaned back against it. “Now, we can talk.”
She glared. Was it wrong that he grew hard looking at all that fierce, feminine fury?
“You.”
He swallowed. “Me.”
“You did this.”
He kept quiet.
“I—You—Oh.” She stormed out of the entryway and back down the hall to her open kitchen and living area. While she paced, he took in more details. She liked blue, because he remembered pale blue on her bedroom walls. A neutral gray coated the living room, broken up by blue pillows, paintings, and a throw over the ugly-as-hell couch. Her kitchen was white. And no longer spotless. A giant pizza box, half empty, and a six-pack of beer with two missing sat on the counter. He saw a bag of chips and salsa, some Jujyfruits candy, and olives nearby.
“Are you pregnant?”
She stopped and stared. “What?”
“Olives and candy and chips? That’s weird.”
“That’s comfort food.” She flounced down on the couch, tapping her foot. “I’m so pissed right now.”
“At me?”
“At me.” She swore. “I have a temper, and as Elliot so kindly pointed out to me, this is the second time I’ve put us under the gun of a potential lawsuit. Though I don’t see how dumping our ice water at the park is hurting anybody.”
He felt for her. She looked miserable.
Sadie wore her hair down. Her cheeks were flushed, her pajamas barely hiding her braless rack and long, toned legs. He sat down next to her before she could see his erection and suspect him of coming over for sex. Which I did not, he reminded his cock.
“Look, Sadie, Elliot should remember that no one saw you punch Sahara but me. So you’re really down to just one lawsuit.”
“Thanks.” She blew out a breath. “I didn’t mean to go off on those cretins. But I can’t stand when the little guy gets stepped on.” She gave him a once-over. “Though you’re not exactly little.”
“You hate injustice.”
“Exactly.” She grabbed an open beer in front of her and downed some. “Want a beer? There’s more on the counter.”
“Thanks.” He helped himself to one and kicked back with her. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
She sighed. “It’s not your fault. I mean, it is for getting into TV and all, but you can’t help those vultures going after you. I guess it could be worse. They could be camped out on my doorstep.”
“Don’t even think it.” He shuddered. “It started out slow, you know. The whole fame-infamy thing. We had a show about building custom bikes. I was all about making the motorcycles. I left Brian and Sahara to all that other bullshit. The acting bits. The unnecessary drama.” He drank some of his beer. “I think you’d like the shop the way it started. Some of the guys are okay. Or were okay. Who the hell knows what they think anymore?”
He would miss ragging on Smoke. Hearing about Chains’s latest foray into online dating. The guys were huge and dense when it came to women. But genuine and serious about bikes. Then again, maybe he’d been wrong about them too.
“It’s weird. We’ve been on for three years. On my way inside your place, some guy asked for my autograph.” He shook his head. “Me. Who the fuck am I? I just build bikes. Big deal. It’s not brain surgery.”
“Or rocket science,” she agreed a little too readily.
He turned to argue, saw her smirk, and relaxed. “So I’m forgiven?”
“I was never really mad at you. Sorry. You were an easy target.”
“I don’t know about easy.”
“Trust me. You’re easy.” She drank again. “I saw the hard-on you’re trying to hide. You put the e in easy.”
He groaned and held the bottle to his forehead to cool off. “It’s your fault for not wearing a bra. Seriously, I only came over to apologize. I swear I’m not here for sex.”
“Even if I want some?”
What did a guy say to that? No, because I want you to see me as more than a sex toy? Or hell yes, because I’m not right unless I’m with you. Inside you. Together.
So he did what men always did when unsure of the answer. He drank beer and refused to respond.
Coming September 2017
For more Marie Harte
check out her next book
All I Want for Halloween
On sale September 2017
Acknowledgments
Deepest thanks to those who helped me with the research for this book. Any mistakes are mine alone. To Dr. Elizabeth Leeburg, for your help with some of the psychological factors. To Julie Drey, for patiently explaining to me what EMR and the medical speak was about. And to all the folks at Sourcebooks for helping this book come together, I truly appreciate your expertise.
About the Author
Caffeine addict, boy referee, and romance aficionado, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Marie Harte is a confessed bibliophile and devotee of action movies. Whether hiking in Central Oregon, biking around town, or hanging at the local tea shop, she’s constantly plotting to give everyone a happily ever after. Visit marieharte.com and fall in love.
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