Page 114 of Dock

I can still teach him the lessons in private…when he’s not teaching me private lessons.

Our arrival back at home – thankfully – isn’t merely a drop and go.

No.

He parks.

Removes our helmets.

Properly stores his and lets me take mine to keep inside for future rides.

Gahhhh, I love that there will be future rides.

There’s just something about being on the back of his bike that’s truly thrilling.

“I want a key,” Hogan announces when we reach the front door.

Surprise has me nearly dropping the object in my possession. “What?”

“Yeah.” He slides his hands into his front pockets. “I wanna come and go whenever.”

Pushback manages to fumble its way out of my mouth. “Isn’t it…uh…too…soon? For that sort of thing?”

His jaw immediately tightens, something I find both sexy and terrifying. “No.”

Bewilderment does a lap around my face.

“I wanna crawl into bed with you after club business,” H begins, gaze holding mine hostage. “Post parties. Pre shifts.”

“Wait. Am I not invited to these parties?” Cringing innocently occurs. “Not that I ever…get um…invited to parties anyway. Not even at Christmas. Found out when the holiday one was at school because I read it on someone else’s desk.” Hating how pathetic that makes me sound pushes me to state, “You know, I’m not sure future me goes to parties, either. Or if she gets invited but doesn’t go. Or-”

“Teach,” one hand reaches to grab mine that’s not holding the helmet, “you can come to the parties. You can come to the clubhouse. I just wanna be here,” he flexes his hold, “sleeping in your bed – which will be our bed – or watching you grade papers on your couch – that’ll become our couch – or eating chicken carbona in your kitchen – that’s become our kitchen – whenever I can.”

“Aw,” rushes out without allowing me to stop it, “it’s like a much sweeter Goldilocks and The Three Bears.”

“More like Teach and The Biker.”

“That sounds like a terrible fairy tale,” I playfully chastise. “And one I so shouldn’t tell my future first graders.”

“Then it’s a good thing it’s happening in real life, and you don’t have to tell them shit.”

New rounds of laughter are followed by soft, short kisses and an even softer surrender, “We’ll get you a key, H.” The corners of his lips curl upwards in victory. “For now, you can use the spare that’s under the pink mushroom over there.”

Hogan looks behind him at the misshapen piece of lawn art near the front window bush. “Student made?”

“Teacher appreciation gift.” He lets his eyes find mine again. “Make something from the heart.”

“And they made a mushroom out of old plastic dishes?”

“Their parents are herbalist, so mushrooms are their family thing. It was sweet.”

“The Frezzas.”

My jaw swiftly hits the ground. “How do you know that?!”

“They move weight and shrooms are their specialty.”

The shocked expression remains.