Page 145 of This Could Be Us

“Thanks for having us over, ladies,” Judah says to them. “And for letting me borrow your mom. I’ll bring her right back.”

“You can keep her for a while,” Lupe says. “We could use the break.”

“Very funny,” I say, punching her arm lightly. “I’ll be back.”

We step out onto the porch and into the cool night. We are on the cusp of spring, and I draw in a lungful of crisp air and then blow out all the tension I carried preparing for tonight, hoping it would go even half as well as it did.

“We did it,” I tell Judah. “We had dinner with our families and no blood was shed.”

“Of course we did.” He reaches for my hand again, guiding me down the porch steps. “I told you it would be fine.”

“I know, but…”

I spot the motorcycle parked in my driveway, gleaming in the light from the streets and the moon. “Oh, my God, Judah!”

I turn to him and cover my mouth, beaming and meeting the pride and excitement in his eyes.

“Is that the—”

“1981 Honda CM400?” He steps behind me and slips his arms around my middle. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I think it is.”

“Your Me List!”

“My dad and I finished the bike over Christmas, and I had it shipped here.”

“It’s purple.” I twist to peer up at him over my shoulder. “But… I thought you said you couldn’t pull off purple?”

“And I thought you said purple was your favorite color.”

I’m momentarily stunned, not just by the act itself, that he painted the motorcycle purple, but that over and over he demonstrates how he listens and how he considers me.

“I have to be careful around you,” I say faintly. “You pay attention to everything I say.”

“Damn right I do.” He kisses behind my ear, pulling me closer to his chest. “You up for a ride?”

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle before,” I say, stifling the delight that tries to spill out all over the place.

“If you can hold on to me,” he says, pulling me down the drive and toward the bike, “you’ll be fine.”

We stop in front of the motorcycle, moonlight reflecting off the purple and chrome.

“If holding on to you is all it takes,” I say, wrapping my arms around him, tipping my head back to stare into his eyes, “then I’ll be fine.”

He lowers his forehead to mine, and I twine my fingers with his. Like always, just the touch of our hands sends a thrill through me, as if our hearts meet and beat between our palms. “I love you, Judah.”

He dips to dust kisses along the curve of my throat.

“I adore you,” he says, his breath at my ear raising an army of goose bumps, “Soledadhermosa.”

At every turn this man demonstrates his care, his interest, his need to know and understand who I am. I’m seen in a way I’ve never been seen. After the neglect and disrespect of my marriage, Judah is a gift that’s been fashioned especially for me.

“We better get going,” Judah says, stepping away and nodding to the motorcycle. “Before your curfew hits and the girls come looking for us.”

I laugh and, listening to his instructions, swing my leg over the bike and slip on the helmet he offers me. He pulls my hands around his waist and covers them with his own.

“Remember, you have to hold on tight.”

“Don’t go superfast,” I squeak. “Have you driven one of these before?”

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