Page 6 of Sparks Fly

I frantically tapped the heart again. It disappeared. Unlike. I stared at the screen, suddenly very aware of the quiet in my apartment.

“Goddammit,” I whispered.

Because unless Instagram had changed something recently, there was a very real chance Sawyer had just gotten a notification that Addison Hart had liked a thirty-six-week-old motorcycle photo at nearly three a.m. Which meant she knew that I had absolutely been insta-stalking her.

My phone started ringing. Jason. I let it buzz for a moment before silencing it.

Why the fuck is he calling me at three a.m.

It’s not that Jason wasn’t a good guy. He was. On paper, he was near perfect. But he was just sort of… boring.

A minute later a message appeared on Instagram.

Sawyer: Stalking me, Sunshine?

My pulse kicked as I stared at the screen for a moment before typing back.

Me: Just doing research.

Sawyer: Is that what they’re calling it now?

Me: I call it being thorough.

Sawyer: Cute. Dangerous, but cute.

I leaned my head back against the couch as my heart raced.

Me: I like danger.

Sawyer: Yeah. I get that vibe.

I set my phone face down beside me and sank deeper into the cushions, her face still lingering in my mind along with that voice. And somewhere between the warmth of the liquor and the quiet of my apartment, I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

3

Sawyer

The morning sun cracked open across the skyline, warming the pavement and turning every surface gold.

I liked riding early, before the streets got crowded and before the city decided who it was going to be for the day. The air still held a little bite from the night, clean and sharp in my lungs, and I took the long way to breakfast. Cutting through the industrial strip near the shipyards where everything smelled like salt and old iron.

My visor was up and the wind threaded through my hair, the rainbow streaks flicking against my jaw. I didn’t bother with music. The growl of the engine and the rhythm of the road were enough.

My thoughts unwound behind me like smoke as I rode. No static. No noise. Just asphalt and the hum of machinery under me. If I stayed on the bike long enough, I could almost convince myself I could outrun the rest of my life.

I kicked the stand down, tugged my helmet off, and shook my hair loose as I headed toward the back entrance. I caught a couple of eyes on me on the way in, maybe curious, maybe appreciative, but I didn’t mind because attention slid right off me like rain on wax.

Inside, the place was already half full, soft rock drifting through the speakers while the smell of eggs and syrup hung in the air. Booths worn smooth with time lined the walls, and the whole place had the comfortable kind of age that came from years of people showing up hungry and leaving happy. It was my kind of place, the kind where no one blinked if you walked in wearing boots and a tank top. I hated restaurants where you had to pretend to be anything other than hungry.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Vic called from our usual booth as they spotted me walking in.

I flipped them off automatically as I slid into the booth, grinning while I shrugged my jacket off. “You’re lucky I didn’t keep riding and ditch you all for pancakes alone by the pier.”

Vic, my best friend, chosen family and human caution sign, sat perched at the end of the booth with a mimosa in their hand and an expression that read equal parts mischief and caffeine deprivation. Their hair was buzzed on the sides, longer on top, and dyed lavender. It clashed violently with the neon yellow hoodie they had on.

“I would’ve forgiven you,” Nina said without looking up from her phone as she stirred her drink lazily. “But only if you sent nudes.”