Page 76 of Rogue Riders Duet

There are low murmurs, some coughing from Dane, and then the crinkle of packaging.

Sounds like Dane put up as much of a fight as I did.

Finn reappears a minute later and sinks into the passenger seat, which is, thankfully, a row behind mine. One row, one breath of space between us. If he were any closer, I don’t think I could keep my cool.

My eyes are on the wide rearview mirror above the dash, watching as he pulls a small bottle of disinfectant from his backpack and methodically cleans his hands. Then he stretches out with a satisfied smile on his face, arms folded behind his head, his long legs propped slightly to the side so they don’t crowd the aisle. I tear my eyes away from the mirror, wondering why he looks like he’s settling in for a damn road trip. Feeling the weight of his presence, I glance over my shoulder and find him watching me.

He’s not smiling anymore.

He’s just watching.

Waiting.

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, having no idea what to do with the heat blooming behind my aching ribs.

“Planning on hitching a ride to Austria?” I ask, trying to keep my tone level.

“Only if you’re going that way,” he jokes.

“You should flee while you still can. We’ve got a long road ahead.”

He just chuckles. “Eight hours. You should probably get started.”

“I will. As soon as you’re gone.”

Instead of moving, he nods toward the front window, and I follow his gaze. Right on cue, his red team bus pulls out of the lot, disappearing around the bend.

He leans in toward me and murmurs, “Looks like if you kick me out, I won’t get to Austria.”

My lungs hiccup.

Not literally, thank God. But close enough.

“I… Finn, Dane is sick. You’ll get sick staying in here.”

He grabs his backpack again, unzips a side pocket, and pulls out what looks like an oversized lozenge pack. He holds it up between two fingers. “These are the miracle cure. We just suck on them nonstop for the next eight hours and won’t catch anything. My mom swears by them.”

That makes me pause.

I remember Finn’s mom, with her soft voice and kind eyes. When the circuit stopped in Canada, we used to stay with them, and I grew really fond of her. Even when we were on the road, she’d send care packages filled with homemade granola bars and those awful vitamin gummies that tasted like dirt. She’s a pharmacist. Finn’s dad is a pianist, some big deal in Quebec.

They never really understood Finn, never got why he’d throw his body down a mountain for fun, but they always supported the hell out of it.

I glance at the lozenges. “Dane’s probably gonna sleep the whole time,” I try again, a final weak protest.

“Even more reason not to let you drive all this alone,” he says casually, like it’s already decided.

“I could stop. Take breaks.”

“You could.” His voice dips, amused. “But you wouldn’t.”

I narrow my eyes at the road ahead. “How would you know?”

“I just know,” he says with another maddening shrug. Then I hear the crinkle of a wrapper, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch him unwrapping a lozenge.

“Open.” Before I can register what’s happening, he leans forward and gently pushes the lozenge against my lips.

My mouth opens on instinct because, apparently, I’ve lost all control over basic motor function, and his fingers brush the edge of my lower lip with a soft, fleeting pressure that might as well be a lightning strike. My breath stalls in my chest.