Page 18 of Perfectly Grumpy

Tate looks faintly amused, like he’s noticed the shift and is letting me squirm about it.

“Okay, Sheriff, start the engine. I’ll ride behind you.”

If he notices the awkward pivot, he doesn’t say a word. He moves deliberately toward the bike, making me wonder if he’s going to bolt again. Instead, he climbs back on and just fires it up, the engine roaring to life. I slide on behind him, and try not to think about how solid he feels, how good he smells, or how absolutely none of this is safe for my heart.

“Look at you,” I shout over the motor. “You almost seem like you know what you’re doing.”

Tate glances back at me. “That’s because we’re not moving.” His hands grip the handlebars tightly.

“You okay, Sheriff?” I ask.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I wrecked a dirt bike when I was a kid. Flipped over the handlebars. Broke my wrist, hit my head. So, yeah, not exactly a fan of motorized two wheels.”

He tries to play it off, but the clench of his jaw is a dead giveaway. There’s no way I’ll get him to relax for a picture when he’s replaying a bike wreck.

“Okay. New idea,” I say, climbing off the back. If Tate needs logic and safety protocols to feel comfortable, then that’s what he’s going to get.

“What now?”

“I’m driving,” I say. “And put on a helmet—they may not be mandatory in South Carolina, but this joyride comes with safety regulations.”

His frown deepens. “Are you planning to toss me off theback?”

“Of course not,” I say, handing him the half-helmet—the kind with open ears so we can still talk while in motion. “You think I’d risk injuring my star client?” I settle in the saddle with Tate behind me and feel his fingers grasping for something to hang on to as I give it some gas.

“Lady, you need to warn me before you take off!” he exclaims.

“Here’s your warning, Sheriff,” I call over my shoulder. “Hold on or else.”

“To what?” he asks.

“Me, obviously.”

I feel his hands hover for a beat, like he’s debating whether it’s okay to touch me, before they finally settle on my hips. I try to ignore how hyper-aware I am of his body behind mine, his hands firmly on my hips, how his presence feels less like a backseat passenger and more like a pull I want to lean into.

In the last few years, I’ve been on more awkward, forgettable dates than I care to admit—and not one of those guys ever sparked even a fraction of what Tate does just sitting still.

But there’s a problem. A very inconvenient, non-negotiable one. I don’t date hockey players. Not after the last one ended so disastrously.

I stop the bike at a red light, the engine idling beneath us.

Tate leans in, his mouth close enough to brush my ear. “I’ve spent my life avoiding reckless, dangerous behavior, and here you are, making me do this.”

“Tate, you play hockey,” I shoot back, half laughing.

“Fair. But no one else could’ve convinced me to dothis.”

“That’s because I’m very persuasive when I want to be,” I say, lifting my chin proudly.

His breath grazes my skin, making my skin flame. “More than you know, Sunny.”

The light flips green, and I ease the bike forward. But my thoughts are still back there, replaying his voice, the way he said my nickname like it was meant only for me.

I turn onto the highway and let the bike loose. The windwhips against my neck, and I feel Tate’s hands tighten around my body, but this time it’s not from fear. He’s leaning in to me, no hesitation or second-guessing now.

We ride for about twenty minutes, just long enough for us to reach the stretch of highway where the beach comes into view. The salty breeze, the crash of waves, the sun glinting off the water—it’s everything I hoped this ride would be.

When we reach the public beach access, I ease the Harley into a parking spot and cut the engine. This is the perfect place to shoot a few photos of Tate with the ocean behind him. The wide-open lot feels safe and quiet, exactly the right setting for the next part of the plan. Get him back on the bike, this time for the camera.

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