Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(48)

My body softens. I take the two steps to put us helmet to helmet again. I lift my visor and lift his next. “And what did I say earlier that upset you?”

He looks away, sighs, and meets my eyes again. “My dad is a narcissist. I don’t mean it in a hyperbolic way either. I’m pretty certain that he is an actual narcissist. My life growing up . . . it was painful a lot. And I quickly learned that saying what I truly thought or felt could get turned on me in an instant. Honesty, vulnerability . . . those things were what I got rid of first. And then I learned the art of reading him. Reading his moods and his energy and becoming what I needed to be to get through the day and to protect my mom from his shit. That mechanism bled into the rest of my life too . . . mostly by accident. I read people and adapt before I even realize I’m doing it. It’s usually not until later when I’m sitting alone, and I feel hollow and used and upset that I realize I betrayed myself in some way. And so often . . . I’m scared that all this reading and maneuvering people—even if it’s with the right intent—is somehow going to turn me into him. So when you made that comment—”

I shut my eyes. “The ‘monster in private’ one . . .”

He nods slowly. “It terrified me.”

I wrap my hand around his forearm and squeeze. “I’m so sorry. It was a thoughtless comment—and one I never would have made if I knew about your dad. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a narcissist.”

The side of his mouth hitches. “Well . . . you would be the best judge.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re the only person I’m nothing but honest with.”

His words snip the last vines of loneliness from my heart and replace them with balloon strings.

I lift my chin. “Help me with the buckle.”

His chest expands with a breath, and he smiles before closing his visor. “You truly hate the word ‘please,’ don’t you?”

“It’s a terrible word.”

He pinches the front of my shirt and gently tugs me even closer. My stomach muscles clench as his hands move under my chin to secure the loops of the fastener.

I wish his visor were open so I could see his eyes. I like looking into them this closely.

But maybe it’s a good thing I can’t see his eyes for what I’m about to say next. “I hated you immediately in college because you were the first man to smile at me after my ex broke my heart. I wasn’t in a good place to be flirted with.” His fingers pause for only a second and then finish up, pulling the strap taut but comfortable under my chin. “The red cowboy boots are my summer treat. I look forward to them every year. If I wore them during the school year, they wouldn’t be special anymore.” I take a breath. “You’re the most intentional man I know. You don’t do anything without a reason. And that’s how I knew there was a story behind your glasses and why you never wore them. And lastly, my hands ball up because it helps me not cry. I don’t cry in front of anyone. Ever.” One more pause. “Except you apparently.”

His head tilts. “For the record . . . I’ll still think you’re strong as hell even though you cried around me. And I like that I’ve gotten to see your summer treat boots.” He pauses. “Thank you for telling me all of that.” He snaps my visor down. “But if you scream like a little baby on the back of this bike, I’ll make fun of you for eternity.”

I laugh and smack the side of his helmet. But then he grabs my wrist and tugs me up so close to him our helmets bump. My heart punches against my sternum, especially as Jack’s gloved thumb runs up and down the tender inside of my wrist. “I’ll be so careful with you, Emily,” he says, but I don’t have the heart to ask him if he means on the motorcycle or not.

I nod.

He lets me go and situates himself on the bike, twisting to look at me. God help me, he looks so good. “Okay, this is your seat,” he says, patting a tiny little sliver of cushion behind him that’s slightly higher than his seat. “Put your foot on that and then kick over.” He lifts his visor once again and looks at me expectantly when I don’t move.

“You sure there’s not like an extra pop-out seat or something? This looks . . . small.”

“It’ll be okay. I promise.” He extends his hand to help me on. And I still can’t quite get used to the sight of him doing that—offering to help me. To touch me. It does dangerous things to my insides. And my outsides. And every side I own.

It’s not my prettiest choreography, but a minute later, I’m on the back of the bike with hands primly on Jack’s shoulders. I am a two-by-four sitting straight up behind him. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I say as he adjusts our weight, and the bike leans a little. “I’m going to fall off! There’s no way this is safe. Why would you get one of these? This is the stupidest decision you’ve ever made. And my stupidest decision for getting on here with you!”

“Are you done hollering at me? Put your arms around me and lean in.”

“Excuse me? I will not be leaning anywhere.”

He laughs. “You think I’m going to drive on the road with your ass dangling off the back like that? Scoot in, hug the bike with your thighs, and wrap your arms around my torso here,” he says, taking my hands and pulling them around his body and tugging them together until I lean my chest against his back. And was it strictly necessary to say thighs so erotically like that? “Better, right?”