Page 44 of My Hotshot

Duane tipped his head and grinned. “Yeah, I guess none of them are your average run-of-the-mill names.”

“I’m assuming Olive and Rocky are their real names. I’m going tohaveto meet Cue Ball’s mom if she named him that at birth.”

Duane laughed. “Road name, babe. Don’t ask me what his real name is, though.”

I smiled. “If I ever meet him, I’ll be sure to ask.”

“Not that he’ll tell you. Most of the guys kind of forget their real names once they get their road name. Feels more likeyouthan the one your mama slapped on a birth certificate.”

“Is that a badass biker thing to do?”

He nodded. “That’sexactlya biker thing.”

I laughed and leaned forward to flip the pizza box closed. “Got it.” Then I looked over at him again. “So how old is Rocky?”

“Twelve? Maybe thirteen?” Duane shrugged. “Whatever age makes kids grow like weeds and eat like garbage disposals.”

“That would be eleven all the way to fifteen. Ask me again when Lottie turns sixteen next summer. I swear that girl can polish off a family-sized meal and still ask what’s for dessert.”

He chuckled. “Got it.”

We kept watching, the episode unfolding with the usual chaos and drama of trucks stuck in the snow, brave operators pulling them out, and storm clouds looming overhead. We sat close—maybe not quite touching, but enough that I felt him beside me with every breath.

When the episode ended, I stood up and grabbed the empty pizza box. “I’ll take this to the kitchen.”

I turned around quickly once I got to the kitchen to tell him I would get the plates—too quickly—and walked right into him.

His arms caught me before I could stumble backward; the plates and bottles he had been holding clattered to the floor. The pizza box slipped from my hands and landed beside them.

He was holding me.

Close.

So damn close.

His arms were around my waist, steadying me.

I looked up at him, and for a heartbeat, we just stared at each other.

“Hi,” I whispered, my voice breathy and stupid and completely out of my control.

His eyes were darker now, full of something that made my stomach flip inside out. “Hey, babe,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

I swallowed, very aware of every inch of him. “I was just going to tell you I would get the plates.”

He smirked. “I had them.”

We both glanced down at the floor, where the mess of dishes and boxes now lay.

“Whoops,” I laughed, the sound breathless and awkward.

His arms stayed where they were, not pulling me closer, but holding methere. As if letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

“I don’t think I’m going to fall now,” I said, voice soft.

“You sure?” he asked, eyes boring into mine.

I bit my bottom lip and my heart was racing. “I mean… my knees are feeling a little weak right now, but I don’t think that has anything to do with me bumping into you.”

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