Page 3 of Patrick

“I didn’t start it.” He glares at me. “And you’re not perfectly safe when it comes to him. He’s a⁠—”

“Never mind,” she says. “Go home and take care of that hand, and I won’t mention this to anyone.” He stares at her in disbelief, and I barely keep myself from laughing, biting down hard on my lower lip.

He shakes his head. “Stay away from him and stay out of trouble.” He glares at her for another beat, and she stands with her arms folded waiting for him to leave. Then he turns to me, dishing a farewell glare.

“Keep away from Sofia if you know what’s good for you.” He stares, and I stare back. Neither of us blinks, but I manage to keep my mouth shut because there’s nothing I can say that won’t get me into more trouble with one or the other of them.

“Go.” Sofia makes a shoving motion with her hands, and with his teeth clenched against the pain in his hand he’s holding against his chest, Frank rambles back down the hall where he came from, to the lobby and the exit.

“I guess this means you need a ride home,” I say.

She laughs. “You didn’t hit him. You didn’t even take one swing at him.”

“Right. I didn’t think it politic to hurt him.”

She laughs again, picks up her bag, and moves toward me. As she closes in, it feels like she’s bringing an earthquake with her, like the whole world is vibrating with a powerful energy. But I keep my eyes on her face and her smile, staying steady, and I keep my hands to myself.

Frank was right. Sofia Rossi is not good for me.

But when she loops her arm through mine and her scent envelops me, the warmth of her arm and body soaking into mine, infiltrating until I can feel her in my bloodstream, hot and thrilling, any thoughts of whether she’s good or bad for me fall away like self-preservation is an overrated thing compared to whatever this is between us.

“About that ride—don’t take me straight home.”

I almost stumble as we walk down the hall to the back exit. Shit.

When she sees my motorcycle, her eyes flare wide, but the corners of her mouth lift slightly, grudgingly, and she moves faster, breaking away from me.

“Secret?” Fifi asks. “I’ve always wanted a ride on the back of a motorcycle.” She draws the palm of her hand across the leather seat, and I can feel it like she’s stroking my⁠—

I cough. Then I get hold of myself—I mean my cool, not my—never mind. “Consider me the granter of all your naughtiest wishes.” Closing in, I wrap an arm around her and whisper in her ear because I’m addicted to that scent hovering around the delicate lobes and down her neck.

“Your brother will murder me if he finds out.” The raspy sound of my voice surprises me, and I start to pull back because this isn’t how a guy takes control of his cool. This is how a guy gets himself in a world of trouble wanting a girl he can’t have.

“You mean he’ll kill you if he can actually land a punch.” Her mischievous little grin is somehow sexy as hell and ignites the spark in me beyond redemption.

“Hop on behind me.” I swing a leg over the sleek, efficient bike built more for speed—because that’s my jam—than passengers, which means the back seat is small to non-existent, and when she hops on the peg and swings her leg over, holding onto my shoulders without an ounce of shyness, she ends up tight against my back, her arms wrapped around my abdomen like she’s done this all before.

“You sure you’ve never ridden before?” I ask.

She leans her head close to my ear and whispers, “Only in my dreams.”

Everything in me flinches to attention, especially my inconveniently located dick.

“I only have one helmet.” I pass it to her.

She takes it reluctantly. “Won’t you get in trouble for riding without one?”

“No. There’s no helmet law in New Hampshire.” I turn to watch her.

“So you’re giving me your helmet to protect me…” Her eyes are dreamy, and in spite of all kinds of warning flags that she’s getting the wrong idea, my dick is telling me I’m full of crap because she has the exact right idea. I’m so freaking in lust with her that my mouth is dry as ashes because my body is on fire. And that may include my heart, may all the gods of heaven and hell, including Cupid, help me.

My hand shakes as I turn away with a curt nod and start up the bike.

“Don’t go straight home. Take me somewhere fun,” she whispers in my ear, her hair blowing on a light breeze in the cool late afternoon air and wisps of it tickling my face.

I shudder and hope to hell she didn’t notice. “It’s going to be chilly.” I slip out of my jacket and hand it to her.

“What are you doing? I’m wearing a sweater.” Her eyes are wide and her words soft.