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“Much better. Thank you for listening.”
“That was terrible.”
“You’re used to action?”
“Yes. You were crying.”
“Sometimes women just need someone to listen.”
“Torture. I’m a man of action.”
The buzz from the whiskey felt good, and she scanned the parking lot. “Where’s that truck you were driving?”
“I parked it at my motel. That thing is brutal. It’s too quiet.”
“You know, my mom once told me that men who ride motorcycles are just tempting death.”
“I fuckin’ know. So far Death is ignoring me.”
“Like your romantic relationships, heyoooo,” she crowed.
“I know someone who can fix your nose,” he said suddenly, the smile drifting from his face.
She stilled. “Who?”
“Lucia’s mate is a healer. I would bet my boots he could reset it.”
She rested her chin on her palm and smiled. “I’ll think about it. Lately I kind of like the reminder.”
“What reminder?” he asked carefully.
“The reminder that I’m a motherfucking survivor.”
A slow smile stretched his lips, and he nodded. “Attagirl.”
“Does it bother you?” she asked seriously.
Gunner stared at her for a few moments and then stood, offered his hand, and pulled her up. He slipped his hand over her throat and gently pulled her in, hesitated an inch from her, then kissed her nose. “No. It reminds me that you’re a motherfucking survivor.”
He released her and she rocked forward, breathless. Stunned, she watched him pull his wallet out and throw down cash for their drinks and a big tip for the bartender. He reached for her hand easily and led her out of the bar.
She looked down at where her small hand was held in his big, strong one, and for a moment, the butterflies in her stomach were overwhelming. She’d never felt like this with anyone in her life.
He could take her worst admissions and shrug them off, then make her feel better about them.
And then he could make her insecurities disappear completely with a simple kiss.
Oooooh, a woman like her could get real loyal to a dangerous man like him.
He led her out of the bar and told her to lock her car, which she did. Then he strode toward his motorcycle, and time slowed as she watched him make his way to the black-on-black bike with two helmets sitting on the seat. He was wearing a forest green T-shirt today with dark-wash jeans and a chain wallet. It was like a slow-motion movie scene as he pulled his helmet over his face and angled it toward her as he buckled it under his chin. She could see her stunned look in the reflection of his mirrored visor.
This man was so fine.
He picked up the other helmet and held it out, and she realized what he had done.
The full-face helmet was shiny and brand-new, with red detailing and a mirrored silver visor.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, taking it from his hand.
