Page 8 of Oops! I Fell for the Biker Next Door

Silence settles between us, heavy and warm in the afternoon sun. I digest the truth of who he’s become—dangerous, maybe, but still the same guy at the core. He knows what he's doing.

Here I am, feeling like I'm being swept away by a swift river, while he’s already standing on solid ground.

He purses his lips, staring out off the porch for a beat before turning back to me. As if reading my mind, his brows push together. “You ever thought about leaving the mountain, Zoey? For good, I mean.”

The question hangs in the air, sending a sudden, ridiculous flutter through my chest. For a split second, a foolish thought crosses my mind—that he’s asking because he wants to take me with him. That he’s finally asking the question that’s a few years too late.

Don't be stupid, I check myself, smothering the idea before it can spark into something that'll spread.

I shake my head, a dry laugh escaping my lips. "I've only ever known this life. This cabin was passed down to me; I couldn't just abandon it."

Riot tilts his head as he meets my gaze. The way he stares, it's almost like he can see my hesitance. “You mean you couldn’t abandon the mountain... or you couldn’t abandon the hope that I’d eventually come riding back up it?”

My breath hitches, but I force an eye roll to cover the sudden spike in my pulse. He couldn't possibly know that. Even I'm still in denial about the fact. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” he chuckles, leaning back and resting an arm along the top of the porch rail, looking entirely too self-satisfied. “Willowbrook Ridge is suffocating, Zo, but Meadow Falls? You’d love it.”

“You sound awfully confident,” I counter, crossing my arms to keep my hands from fidgeting. “And why, exactly, would I?”

He chuckles and stretches his arms behind his head, looking far too confident.

“Because back then, you liked everything I liked,” he says softly, bringing up the past. "And I love that place."

"Actually," I huff, crossing my arms as the heat creeps up my neck. "I didn't like half of that stuff. I only sat through it because—"

"Because you had a huge crush on me," Riot reminds me, way too casually. Enough to make me jerk in return.

My breath hitches. Is he really doing this right now? Is he finally calling it out?

"Okay, fine," I shoot back, trying and failing to keep the flush out of my cheeks. "Yes. But emphasis on had. That was a lifetime ago."

"Right, ancient history," he hums smoothly. "Though, if I recall, I didn't actually figure it out until you—"

"Lucas—" I snap, the warning heavy on my tongue as my cheeks burn hotter. "I remember it well enough. You don't need to replay the tape."

Bringing up our goodbye is the last thing I want to talk about. Especially when I remember how recklessly I acted, practically throwing myself at him in hopes he'd return my feelings. I was young, and stupid, and hopelessly in love with the guy I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. It's terribly embarrassing, even an entire decade later.

His smirk only broadens, wicked and unabashed. "You stole my first kiss, Zo. Stretched my collar out and everything, yanking me down."

Oh my God, he is actually going to make me relive one of my most embarrassing moments.

"Because you were stiff as a board!" I huff, desperate to regain any shred of control over this conversation. "It was awful. We can both agree on that. Besides, I’ve had much better kisses since then."

I open my mouth to remind him that he probably has too, but the words die in my throat.

The playful amusement vanishes from his face in an instant. The easygoing posture melts away as he shifts forward, his attention fully on me now. In an instant, he's suddenly so serious, suffocatingly so.

"I'm a damn good kisser," he argues, his voice dropping to a murmur that sends a shiver down my spine. "You just caught me off guard, is all. I wasn't expecting you to do it."

We were barely eighteen, neither having experience in the field. I don't know where his confidence comes from, but with the way he's looking at me, I don't have the courage to remind him of the fact.

When he stands, I momentarily forget my side of the argument. That I was only so terrible because I planned on confessing my feelings and was so nervous that I'd wanted to throw up. He's back to towering over me, his boots scraping the porch as he moves directly in front of my chair.

Looking up at him, I can't keep my breathing steady.

When he kneels and grips the arms of my chair, I know I'm done for. Butterflies flutter in my chest, demanding their release.

"I can prove it, too," he adds, throwing in a challenge to bait me. "If you'll let me."