Page 4 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)

I back up, giving her room, and she loops her purse across her body.

With her standing next to me, I finally get to see how tall she is—probably only a few inches under six foot—but she carries herself like she’s eight feet tall, not waiting for me to guide her out the door.

Although, once we hit the sidewalk, she pauses so I can catch up.

I motion to the right, and we stroll to the next block slowly, hands brushing.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” I ask, and she shoots me a look.

“Until you showed up.”

“Can’t scare me off that easy,” I say because I like her attitude. Then I offer her my phone to plug her address into my Maps app and direct her to where I parked my Indian Scout.

She stops short. “You ride a motorcycle?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t say anything about a motorcycle.”

From the way her skin goes ashen, I can tell she’s scared, and I recalculate my plans. “Hey, it’s all right. If you don’t want to ride, I’ll call us a car. I’ll?—”

“No. It’s fine.” She tosses her arms out, sighing, and I get the impression this woman doesn’t like being fussed over. She’s one of those independent ladies. And, hey, love that .

But, also, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of chivalry.

I step up close to her. “Are you sure? If you’re afraid, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not afraid.”

I smother my smile. “Right.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” I hand over my leather jacket. Besides safety, it’s also a few degrees cooler than it was a couple hours ago. But, again, she rolls her eyes.

Still, I hold it out so she can put her arms through then zip it up to her chin and help slip my helmet over her head. I slide the visor down into place and knock my knuckles on the side. “How’s it feel?”

“Fine,” she says, then stops me when I start to get on the bike. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don’t you need…?” She gestures to the helmet and jacket, and I wave her off. I don’t plan on hitting the pavement, but if we do, I’d rather her be covered up than me.

“Don’t worry about it. Just grab a seat. You’re in good hands. I promise.”

It takes her a long moment to stretch her leg over the bike, settling behind me, though she’s reluctant to sit up against me. She needs to for comfort and safety. “Move up.”

She doesn’t, so I wrap my hand around the outside of her thigh and tug her toward me. She resists. “You don’t have to hold on to me, but you’ll need to put your hands on the tank in front of me.”

Still, she doesn’t, and I shake my head at her stubbornness, pointing to the pegs on either side. “Put your feet there and try to relax. If you fight the turns, it’ll make it harder for both of us. Think you can handle that?”

“I can handle it,” she snips, barely audible from under my helmet, and I smile to myself.

“I’m sure you can.” Then I rev the engine and carefully pull out onto the street with her still not holding on, her hands on her thighs as if she can keep herself on the bike by sheer force of will.

I don’t doubt her will. But she won’t win a fight against gravity.

I check traffic at the stop sign then hit the gas, jerking forward, forcing Taryn against me with a frightened screech. Her arms wrap around my torso, her thighs snug against mine.

“Oops,” I say, glancing at her over my shoulder, and she pinches my side.

“You did that on purpose.”

Ignoring her accusation, I squeeze her thigh before taking off down Aster Street.

Taryn shrieks, burying her head against my back, her hands curled in tight balls against my stomach.

Her entire body is tense, and even though I’m not going very fast, she’s hanging on to me as if we’re going one hundred.

But I did ask for it, so I can’t be that upset.

I like that Taryn was afraid yet got on the bike anyway. I’m happy she trusts me enough to give her this ride home, and I relish the feeling of her arms squeezing the shit out of me because she knows I won’t break.

And I certainly won’t break her.

Even though she only lives about five minutes away, I navigate us out of downtown, winding around the university campus to longer stretches of road without lights or stop signs, and Taryn starts to relax into the ride.

Eventually, she lifts her head, looking over my shoulder.

I’m not sure if she can hear me with the combination of the wind and her helmet, but I ask anyway, “You all right?”

She doesn’t answer, so I wrap my hand around her knee, keeping it there as I carefully maneuver us back toward her house, to a neighborhood full of twin brick townhomes.

Being a suburb of Philly, West Chester is close enough to the city, while still having the small-town feel with historic buildings and architecture in almost every direction.

She indicates which street I should make a left on, and I slow down so she can point out her house.

After parking, I hop off and hold out my hand to make sure she’s steady as she swings her leg over and stands.

She wobbles slightly, falling into my side, and I wrap my arm around her waist as she pulls off my helmet, messing up her hair. I tuck the strands behind her ear, taking in her flushed cheeks. “What do you think of your first motorcycle ride?”

“If I wanted to feel like I was punched in the crotch, I would’ve just taken a spin class.”

I stifle my laugh. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re funny,” I say, taking note of the staircase on the side of the house, leading up to a third floor. It wasn’t uncommon for houses built around the turn of the century to be multifamily. “This is nice.”

She leads the way up the walk to the set of three steps to her small porch, finding her keys in her purse. “Thanks.”

“You got an apartment on the top floor?”

“One of the few still left with it. Most people renovated to combine.”

I place my hand on the brick. On the sturdy foundation that so many new builds lack anymore. That’s why renos are my favorite. Keeping those old structures alive and well maintained, that’s what I enjoy most. “It’s smart to keep it for the extra cash flow. But I hope you vet your renters.”

She snorts at me. Because of course she does. “I have kids. I would never not.”

“How’s your roof situation? ”

“Replaced right before I bought it,” she tells me, unlocking her door.

“And how long have you been here? Because the ductwork in homes like this sometimes?—”

“Did you come here to talk about my house or to fuck?”