Page 50 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

I’ll die before admitting to him how good it feels to have my arms around him. That the competency with which he drives this bike is turning me on maybe the slightest bit. Just a small amount. Tiny. Minuscule. It’s manageable.

A few minutes later when we pull up to the stop sign, he taps on his phone screen that’s mounted between his handlebars and then music is coming through my helmet. But not just any music. The familiar bars of “Pony” by Ginuwine blare in my ears as we take off.

“What are you doing?” I yell over the music.

“Impressing you enough to make you want to ride with meagain.” His helmet angles a little in my direction. And then I gasp when his gloved hand grabs my fist that has been locked against his sternum. He spreads my fingers out flat against his body and then tugs my hands up to the top of his chest. Just as I hear the lyrics to something about a pony and getting on it his hand squeezes mine, pressing it into his hard chest as he slides it sensually down his abdomen. He’s singing along to the music and rolling his body like he moonlights in a dark club with a spotlight on the stage and a cowboy hat.Magic Mike on a bike.

He’s carrying my hand down down down and even though I’m mostly sure he’ll stop before my hand reaches the land of no return, I rip it away and smack him in the shoulder. “Pay attention to the road, menace!”

I can hear his low laugh when he cuts the music and takes the handlebars again, leaning forward. “I’m very good at multitasking.”

As we cruise for the next twenty minutes through our town’s gorgeous back roads, I realize I’m actually having fun. Maybe the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. And I’m having it with Jackson Bennett. And the fear and anxiety that always guides me, it’s nowhere in sight. I’m not thinking about anyone else on this bike besides me, and it’s the greatest relief I’ve had in years.

When we reach our road, Jack asks if I want him to turn in or keep going. It feels like a loaded question—with more than one interpretation. “Keep going,” I tell him.

Jack’s hand reaches back, wraps around my calf, and squeezes.

—

That night, with shaking hands and a sober mind, I open my laptop and purposely attach my manuscript to an email and hit send. I flop back on my bed, wondering how long it will take for a message to send one house over.

FROM: Emily Walker

TO: Jack Bennett

DATE: Wed, June 12 9:02 PM

SUBJECT: My book…

Have you ever been horny for a Highlander before? Now’s your chance…

1 Attachment:DepravedHighlander.docx

Chapter Fifteen

Emily

It’s six-forty-fivea.m., a breeze is blowing through my kitchen window and James Taylor is singing “How Sweet It Is” on my record player as I lift my cup of steaming hot coffee to my mouth. That’s when Jack opens my front door. No warning knocks. Just steps right in like this is his house too. I squeak a noise at the intrusion and barely manage to scoot away from the slosh of coffee over the edge of my mug.

He’s holding a big stack of papers in his hands, and there’s another pile under his arm.

“Jack!” I press myself back into my kitchen counter, feeling incredibly skimpy in my nightgown. It’s the exact color of champagne and of course made of silk because that’s the only fabric I will let touch my skin at night. It’s a short little number with a slit up to my hip. Oh, and it has these cute little lace straps with bows at the juncture of each seam. Fine, let’s be real, it’s lingerie. And I’m not wearing a bra because this is my home, and I will not endure that torture device first thing in the morning. It’s my favorite gown but definitely inappropriate for standard visitors.

“Oh good, you’re up.” He hasn’t looked up from his engrossing papers yet. And I’m worried that when he does, he’s going to see a lot more of me than he’s expecting.

“What are you doing in my house before seven in the morning? And ever heard of knocking?”

“We’re past knocking. It’s a waste of time.”

“I beg to differ.” I set down my coffee mug to cross my arms over my chest. He looks up finally as he steps into my little galley kitchen, full of light with window sheers being tossed by the breeze. And when he sees me, it turns out I had nothing to worry about. Jack doesn’t look fazed by the sight of me in the least.Good?

I, however, can’t help but swoon a little over the sight of him. He’s a mess. His hair is disheveled, his jaw is lined with stubble, there are dark circles under his eyes, and his T-shirt is not only inside out but backward. And he’s wearing dark gray jogger sweatpants.Sweatpants.Jackson owns sweatpants. I imagined he slept in chinos.

“Emily Walker,” he says in a firmer tone than I have ever heard from him. “This”—he raises one of the stacks of papers in the air, wiggling it a bit—“is incredible.”

I’m lost. I’m lost in a dream—that’s what this is. It has to be. I’m in sexy, flimsy clothes, birds are chirping, James is singing, and Jack is in my kitchen babbling on about something that I don’t care at all about because it’s not actually important to the plot. The plot is that we are going to have sex in my dream and that’s the whole purpose of it. That must be what is happening.

Why am I so attracted to the sight of him disheveled? Why do I want to bite his elbow? I’m ninety percent sure that’s a weird thing to think.

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