Page 7

SEVEN

lauren

“Do I have to do this?” Tate asks when I show up at Rose & Thorn for the motorcycle shoot. He crosses his arms as he studies the bike in a way that usually precedes a detailed, but logical, argument. “I’ve reviewed your plan, and I’m still not convinced this translates into a measurable PR win.”

“We agreed to this, remember?” I reply as we head toward the bike. “And my bike will be fun. Or at least photogenic.”

He stops on the sidewalk, his gaze landing on the motorcycle parked next to the curb. “You didn’t tell me it was a Harley.”

“My dad’s,” I reply. “He was going to sell it after Mom passed. They used to ride it together all the time, and I couldn’t let it go.”

The Harley Davidson Softail gleams in the sun, its deep glossy red matching the memory of my mom perched on the back in her denim jacket, laughing and waving to neighbors as they rode through town.

Tate circles it, his face a mixture of disbelief and wonder. “You? You ride this?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yes, me,” I shoot back, planting a hand on my hip. “Is that so hard to believe?”

He glances at me, then the bike, then back again. “Just saying…you don’t exactly give off biker energy.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Stick around, Sheriff,” I say. “ I positively hum with biker energy.” I motion toward the bike. “Get on. See how it feels.”

He swings his leg over and sits on the bike, but he doesn’t immediately reach for the helmet or start the engine. Instead, he runs a hand along the handlebars, like he’s sizing it up. His fingers flex over the throttle, and for a second, I catch the tiniest flicker of interest.

My plan is working. Get him to ride it so he’ll loosen up, and then I can get the shots I need.

But as soon as I pull out a camera, he stiffens, his shoulders rigid, his lips tightened into a line. The change is subtle but unmistakable.

I frown. “Hey, Sheriff, you’re supposed to look sexy, not like you’re auditioning for a safety video.”

He swings a leg off the bike with a quiet sigh. “Which is why I’m not the guy for this photo shoot.” He avoids looking at me. “But I’m sure Rourke would happily take off his shirt and pose for you.”

He turns and heads toward the house, calm and deliberate, like he’s decided the discussion is over.

I freeze. That wasn’t just annoyance—he shut down, his hurt masked by logic. This is hard for him, but I need to make it easier, playing by the rules— his .

“Tate,” I call. “Hey, don’t leave yet. I don’t want Rourke. I want you .”

He stops, then turns back. His mouth curves just slightly. “Careful, Sunny. Say things like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

I grin, because this is the Tate I need for the shoot. “Well, I was momentarily weakened by the sight of you on a motorcycle.” Then I walk over and reach for his arm, playfully nudging him toward the bike. “Come on, what happened to the guy who promised me he could be fun?”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he tenses beneath my touch .

That’s when I realize the mistake I just made: I just touched him. Not in a professional sort of way, but in a this is a bad idea if you want to keep things strictly PR kind of way.

I drop my hand fast. Because I know the rules. No touching the players. No blurring lines. Especially not with a guy I can’t seem to stop thinking about lately.

Tate looks faintly amused, like he’s noticed the shift and is letting me squirm about it.

“Okay, Sheriff, start the engine. I’ll ride behind you.”

If he notices the awkward pivot, he doesn’t say a word.

He moves deliberately toward the bike, making me wonder if he’s going to bolt again.

Instead, he climbs back on and just fires it up, the engine roaring to life.

I slide on behind him, and try not to think about how solid he feels, how good he smells, or how absolutely none of this is safe for my heart.

“Look at you,” I shout over the motor. “You almost seem like you know what you’re doing.”

Tate glances back at me. “That’s because we’re not moving.” His hands grip the handlebars tightly.

“You okay, Sheriff?” I ask.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I wrecked a dirt bike when I was a kid. Flipped over the handlebars. Broke my wrist, hit my head. So, yeah, not exactly a fan of motorized two wheels.”

He tries to play it off, but the clench of his jaw is a dead giveaway. There’s no way I’ll get him to relax for a picture when he’s replaying a bike wreck.

“Okay. New idea,” I say, climbing off the back. If Tate needs logic and safety protocols to feel comfortable, then that’s what he’s going to get.

“What now?”

“I’m driving,” I say. “And put on a helmet—they may not be mandatory in South Carolina, but this joyride comes with safety regulations.”

His frown deepens. “Are you planning to toss me off the back?”

“Of course not,” I say, handing him the half-helmet—the kind with open ears so we can still talk while in motion. “You think I’d risk injuring my star client?” I settle in the saddle with Tate behind me and feel his fingers grasping for something to hang on to as I give it some gas.

“Lady, you need to warn me before you take off!” he exclaims.

“Here’s your warning, Sheriff,” I call over my shoulder. “Hold on or else.”

“To what?” he asks.

“Me, obviously.”

I feel his hands hover for a beat, like he’s debating whether it’s okay to touch me, before they finally settle on my hips.

I try to ignore how hyper-aware I am of his body behind mine, his hands firmly on my hips, how his presence feels less like a backseat passenger and more like a pull I want to lean into.

In the last few years, I’ve been on more awkward, forgettable dates than I care to admit—and not one of those guys ever sparked even a fraction of what Tate does just sitting still.

But there’s a problem. A very inconvenient, non-negotiable one. I don’t date hockey players. Not after the last one ended so disastrously.

I stop the bike at a red light, the engine idling beneath us.

Tate leans in, his mouth close enough to brush my ear. “I’ve spent my life avoiding reckless, dangerous behavior, and here you are, making me do this.”

“Tate, you play hockey,” I shoot back, half laughing.

“Fair. But no one else could’ve convinced me to do this. ”

“That’s because I’m very persuasive when I want to be,” I say, lifting my chin proudly.

His breath grazes my skin, making my skin flame. “More than you know, Sunny.”

The light flips green, and I ease the bike forward. But my thoughts are still back there, replaying his voice, the way he said my nickname like it was meant only for me.

I turn onto the highway and let the bike loose. The wind whips against my neck, and I feel Tate’s hands tighten around my body, but this time it’s not from fear. He’s leaning in to me, no hesitation or second-guessing now.

We ride for about twenty minutes, just long enough for us to reach the stretch of highway where the beach comes into view. The salty breeze, the crash of waves, the sun glinting off the water—it’s everything I hoped this ride would be.

When we reach the public beach access, I ease the Harley into a parking spot and cut the engine.

This is the perfect place to shoot a few photos of Tate with the ocean behind him.

The wide-open lot feels safe and quiet, exactly the right setting for the next part of the plan.

Get him back on the bike, this time for the camera.

“This is my favorite place to ride to on a nice day,” I tell him. “Especially after being stuck in the office for so long. Nothing beats the feeling of freedom on a bike. No one but you and the open road.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Okay, so maybe you’ve made me a convert. Because that was incredible.”

Tate doesn’t let go of me right away. His arms stay around me, solid and warm, and I don’t rush him because I’m savoring every second of this closeness we’re pretending is just for balance.

When he finally slides from the bike, he pulls off his helmet with one fluid motion and drags a hand through his messy, dark hair.

The salt breeze catches it just right, tousling it across his forehead, before he gives me one of those rare smiles. The kind that makes my heart stutter.

Yeah. He definitely enjoyed the ride.

I hop off the bike, tugging out my phone. “Now I need proof that you rode this bike with me.”

“For the team?”

“Nope,” I say. “For me.”

He steps in closer, his chest brushing my shoulder, his dizzying scent making it hard for me to concentrate.

I hold perfectly still as his arm wraps casually around my shoulder, his thumb brushing against my collarbone in a way that sends electricity racing down my arm.

When his smile widens, I suddenly forget how to breathe. Or speak. Or think coherent thoughts.

I snap the photo, but let’s be honest—I couldn’t forget this moment if I tried. That smile is already burned into my memory.