I smirked as I watched her lean over and wrap her fingers around the handlebars.
“Not sure why I didn’t expect your parents to be Brits.”
“They’re not. Just Dad. Mom is from a tiny, tiny, mountain village that Dad was photographing many years ago during his travels,” she said wistfully, sounding as if she were reciting the way the story was told to her growing up. I smiled as I imagined Sara’s big eyes on a mini version of herself.
“Was your dad a photographer?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she laughed. “He was an eighteen-year-old gap year backpacker when he met my poor, unsuspecting mom. She says she didn’t like him at all the first summer they met. He was loud and excitable and a little overwhelming. But despite how young he was, he said she was ‘too pretty to just forget,’ so he kept visiting her summer after summer till she started finding his quirks charming enough to move to London with him.”
“That’s some serious persistency.”
“Yeah, my dad is… whimsical, as he likes to say. He’s a lawyer who loves his colorful socks and chatting anyone’s ear off. Says ‘he’s never met a stranger.’ He’s that guy.”
“Mm. Yeah, I’m familiar with that guy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sara giggled as she tried the foot pegs on the bike. “Meanwhile, my mom trusts no one in this world. Except him. You’ll never see her admit it, because she’s as ridiculously stoic as you are,” Sara glanced at me with a grin, “but she still finds my dad to be so very charming and ‘unbearably funny,’ as she says. It’s cute.”
“Sounds like my parents,” I smiled.
“Forever in love?”
“Yes.”
Sara let out a breath. “That’s the way to be.”
“So I hear. You’re in heels, by the way.”
“What?”
“You’re not exactly dressed to ride a motorcycle tonight.”
She blinked, as if still processing the topic change.
“Oh. I have a change of shoes in my purse.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Any girl in heels who’s carrying a big purse has flats or sneakers in it. I guarantee you.”
I eyed her. “Your pencil skirt doesn’t lend well to mounting a bike.”
“I’ve mounted you in this skirt.”
I held in a groan. “Listen, everything you’re doing on that bike right now is already going straight to my cock, so for the sake of getting to our plans on time, don’t talk about mounting me,” I said as she tipped her head forward and giggled. “Tell me why you’re hell-bent on taking the bike tonight.”
“Because you said you’re choosing where we go, so I get to choose how we get there,” Sara said simply. “And I choose this. Also, I’ve kind of been obsessed with motorcycles since high school,” she grinned dreamily.
“Also unexpected.”
“Yeah, well, I fantasized in great detail about escaping that place,” she murmured distractedly. But I saw the way she blinked when she caught herself. I cocked my head.
“Escaping what place?”
She looked at me. “Save for speedboats, motorcycles are also the coolest form of getaway in heist movies,” she said brightly, purposely ignoring my question. “So, a hundred percent, we’re taking this bike. And if you’re concerned about it being my first ride, it’s not. So, done. It’s decided.”
I had to admire her determination.
“Fine. But you’re wearing a helmet, and I’m going to teach you the proper way to mount and ride as a passenger. Most importantly, when I lean, you lean. Don’t try to balance me by going the opposite way. Even if you feel like we’re about to fall, which you will.”