I'm still rattled from the biker's bold move—paying for my coffee like some suave, leather-clad phantom. He is sexy in a way that's got my pulse racing but also has me on edge, like I've wandered into a game I didn't sign up for.
Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers hums through my car's speakers, the strings a soft counterpoint to the chaos in my head as I pull into the lot of my favorite bookstore.
I need the familiar creak of the floors and the smell of old books to ground me after that encounter.
I park, cut the engine, and head inside, the bell chiming as I step into the cozy quiet.
The shop's calm, just a few browsers flipping pages. I know what I want. So I head toward the books heels click clacking.
I head to the sci-fi section, my fingers grazing spines until I grab The Grid: Book 2, its neon cover promising the dystopian chaos I'm craving—tech gone wild, society unraveling.
Then I wander to historical romance, spotting Song of Russian Ice and Secrets by one of my favorite authors. I've heard it's her best yet, a lush story of Peter the Great's court with a twist on the rumored imposter princess Tarakova, dripping with intrigue and forbidden love. I tuck both books under my arm, already itching to lose myself in them.
At the register, I'm chatting with the cashier about the crisp, almost-fall air when I reach for my wallet. Before I can pull it out, a gloved hand slides a card across the counter. "Got it," that low, teasing voice says, smooth as sin.
I spin around, heart tripping over itself. It's him—the biker, helmet under his arm, hazel eyes glinting with that infuriating, sexy amusement.
"You're *kidding* me," I say, half-laughing, half-flustered. "What, you're just popping up to bankroll my life now?" He doesn't answer, just nods at the cashier, takes his card, sets my bag—with my new books (The Grid: Book 2 and Song of Russian Ice and Secrets)—on the counter, and strides out, boots clicking.
I grab the bag and hurry after him, the bell jingling as I hit the pavement.
He's by his bike again, parked—of course—next to my Mercedes.
It is still bright out. So I boldly march up, gripping my books, and plant myself in front of him. "Okay, look," I say, my voice firm but still a little shaky from his nerve. "I'm going home now, and it'd be *really* weird if you followed me, so please don't. The coffee, the books, this whole mysterious vibe—it's been cute, and yeah, maybe even kind of hot, but I'm not okay with you knowing where I live."
He tilts his head, visor up, and I catch that glint in his eyes. "Fair enough," he says, voice low and playful. "I'm not following you home. Promise." He pulls his helmet on, the tinted visor snapping down, hiding that gaze.
He seems ready to leave and end the game.
Annoyance flares, hot and sudden. I step closer, arms crossed. "Wait, that's it? You pull this bold, stunt" Sexy I think, "paying for my latte, my books (The Grid sequel, Song of Russian Ice and Secrets)—and then just ride off?"
Why do I feel annoyed? I should probably be creeped out but I am not.
"You don't even ask for my name or number?"
I say. My sassy words trail a little as I lose steam.
"You've been tailing me all day, and now you're just... done?" I'm half-joking, but there's real frustration there, like I'm mad he's leaving me hanging after flipping my day upside down.
He pauses, hand on his handlebar, and lifts his visor just enough to show those hazel eyes again.
"No," he says, his voice low and certain, a grin tugging at his lips. "I *will* see you again." He snaps the visor down, swings a leg over his bike, and revs the engine, the rumble cutting through the evening. He gives me a small nod—like he's sealing a promise—and peels out of the lot, his bike's roar fading into the distance.
What just happened?
I stand there, books in hand, muttering, "Un-freaking-believable," as I slide into my Mercedes. Tchaikovsky's strings swell again, but my heart's pounding, and I can't shake the feeling that this guy's not done with me, not by a long shot.