Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Yeah, it’s a casual scene, no worries.” I shrug. “But you’re not stinky. Not even close.”
“Except that I am,” she says, flicking off the lights as we move into the empty lobby. “But you’re sweet to pretend otherwise.”
“No pretending necessary,” I say, my voice huskier than it was before. “You always smell good. Like vanilla and cloves.”
“With a top note of sweat,” she adds, biting her lip in a way that makes me wonder if she feels it too, this electric current that hums between us whenever we’re alone for more than a second or two.
“Tiny top note of sweat,” I admit. “But in the good way. The sweat is always fresh, and fresh sweat is good sweat.”
She laughs, a bubbly sound that makes my entire body feel lighter. “All right then, I’ll take that. Come on Mr. Sniffles. Let’s do our closing duties and get out of here. I’m starving.”
“I’ll meet you out front,” I say, pushing through the front door.
While she takes care of the studio, I prep the sidecar. I bought it years ago on a whim during what I now recognize as the early stages of my addiction—impulse control wasn’t exactly my strong suit at that point. But I’m glad I have it. It comes in handy when I have a friend in town who doesn’t want to ride on the back.
I’ve just finished removing the cover and am adjusting the straps on the dog helmet when Stephanie emerges from the studio, Mr. Sniffles tucked under one arm and her bag slung over her shoulder. Her braids are now pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.
She runs a light hand over them as she stops beside me. “I thought this would be better than my bun. Since I need to get all this hair under a helmet somehow.”
“Smart,” I say, grinning down at her. “And cute. I like it.”
“Thanks,” she says, with a slightly nervous laugh. “Speaking of cute, this is officially thing cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” She leans in, her vanilla and clove (and tiny hint of sweat that I honestly find sexy as hell) scent filling my head as she studies the tiny helmet. “But will he wear it? That’s the question. Mr. Sniffles loves a sweater or some bling on a holiday. But the one time I tried to put him in booties to protect his paws from the snow in Tahoe, he played dead and refused to get up until the horrible toe prisons were removed.”
Chuckling, I say, “Well, it’s hard being Mr. Sniffles.”
“So hard,” she agrees, hugging him closer as she drops a kiss to the top of his head. “But he gets up every day and makes the best of his hard, hard life. Today, he only napped six times and had three snacks, instead of four. It’s amazing he’s not spiraling into doggie depression.”
“Shit, then we need to get this man a snack. Stat.” I reach over, gently settling the helmet on the dog’s head and quickly clicking the chin strap into place before he has much time to react.
“Smooth,” Stephanie murmurs. “Now to see if he’s going to put up a fuss.”
“No need to fuss. Right, buddy?”
Mr. Sniffles grunts in response. His always wrinkly forehead is a little more furrowed than usual, but he doesn’t try to shake the helmet free. And when Stephanie puts him down in the side car, he settles onto the cushion I brought with a soft chuff that sounds more excited than irritable.
“Now, we just need to secure his leash to the car, here.” I thread the leash through the loop and hook it to itself. “Now, he won’t be able to jump out.”
“Nice. You did your research,” she says, nodding in approval. “I’m impressed.”
“Safety first, Love,” I say, as I settle the helmet I brought for her over her braids. She lifts her chin, giving me space to secure the strap for her. The moment is strangely intimate and…nice. I like taking care of this woman who spends so much of her life taking care of everyone else.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, her tongue slipping out to dampen her lips in a way that makes me long to trace that same path with my thumb.
Or, better yet…
Nipping the thought in the bud, I whisper, “My pleasure. Ready to hold on tight? If not, we could move the cushion over and make room for you in the sidecar.”
She shakes her head slowly, her gaze still locked on mine. “No, I want to hold on tight. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
My brows lift. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well,” I murmur as I swing my leg over the seat. “Then, I’m honored to be your first.”
She grins, a wicked grin that makes me suspect her mind is headed into the gutter along with mine. But she doesn’t say a word as she climbs onto the back of the bike behind me and wraps her arms lightly around my waist.