Page 9 of The Biker's Hidden Obsession

“Your dad is handsome,” the barista says with a grin. She’s an older woman, with short gray hair and tight curls, probably the same age as Tennessee.

My stomach twists and knots. “My dad?”

“Yeah, I’m sure you don’t see it, but he’s a catch. Your mom is a lucky woman.”

I think I might die now.

Tennessee walks through the door just as the barista winks at me smugly, like she’s just handed me a winning lottery ticket I’m too dumb to scratch.

He’s got that relaxed swagger that only comes from being wildly competent and infuriatingly calm. “Got the chairs,” he says, like he just picked up milk on the way home. “Caterers squared away. Florists are on board. Oh, and I got a guy going to look at the fountain. He can fix anything so I’m sure it’ll be finished in the next few hours.”

I’m still reeling from thedadcomment when he hands me back my phone like we do this every Saturday.

I take the list and my cell, biting back every self-preserving stupid comment that rolls into the front of my brain while simultaneously ignoring how impossibly warm it feels to have someone take care of me for once.

“Well,” he asks with a crooked grin, “do I get a gold star?”

I blink at him. “Oh no,” I say slowly, “you’re getting way more than a gold star.”

His brows lift. “Yeah?”

“You’re being promoted to hot dad.”

He pauses, looks between me and the grinning barista, then deadpans.

I’d love to say the comment stops my pulse from quickening, or my clit from throbbing, but it doesn’t. Not even a little.

That’s how I know I’m in trouble.

Chapter Four

Tennessee

The moment she swings her leg over the bike behind me, everything shifts. The weight of her mood has lifted and whatever’s happening today is spread out in front of us like the beginning of a movie we’re about to press play on.

A PG rated movie. No, a G rated movie. I have the barista to thank for that. The hot dad comment was just what I needed to feel like a pervert. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to live that one down.

That said, it was a fair observation. Sienna is young. Too young for me. I have no business letting this go any further than the little bit of pretend we’re playing. At this point, even that feels too far.

Her small hands hold tight around my waist and her head rests gently against my shoulder blade as I throttle up and tear through the forest. The world around us blurs in a smear of green and blue, and the scent of pine fills my lungs. Lately, these trips have been great, but today, with the bit of warmth of her breath on the back of my neck as we slow for turns, the ride is a whole new experience.

Why does this feel so damn good?

The lake comes into view as we top the mountain, and I make a pact with myself to work the rest of what I’m feeling through my head before we settle into our fishing spot. I can’thave these thoughts ruining my fucking life. What could even come of it? We’re not getting married, we’re not having kids, and she’s not into me, so whatever I’m feeling is void.

I downshift and coast the rest of the way to the edge of the lake, gravel crunching under the tires the closer we get to the turquoise water. It’s a quiet day, as are most days up here. Thankfully, today we’re alone. There isn’t another human in sight, like we own the lake for ourselves. Our own personal, private sanctuary.

We’re as far as the road takes us when I fire off the engine and stare out at the turquoise expanse. Her arms don’t move when the engine cuts. She stays still in the moment, her small hands still wrapped around my waist, clinging as though she doesn’t want to let go.Maybe it’s all in my head.Either way, it undoes me, and there’s a second that’s quiet and suspended, where I think maybe she’ll stay right there, holding on forever.

A moment later, she slides off the bike, and the moment’s gone. I watch her walk toward the lake, loose and unguarded, like this place peeled off a layer she didn’t know she was wearing.

I swing my leg over the bike, boots hitting the gravel before I grab the folding fishing pole and the tackle box out of the saddlebag on my bike. I keep it there for impromptu fishing stops. It comes up more often than you’d think.

Today, we’re fishing. That’s it. I’m showing her something slow and relaxing. I’m giving her a morning she deserves. Nothing sexual. Nothing emotional. Nothing personal. It’s just a day at the lake with a girl who needs a break.

I step toward her, repeating the mantra in my head. ‘Don’t do anything dumb. Don’t do anything dumb. Don’t do anything dumb.’

She turns as I get close, the wind tugging her hair, her eyes impossibly clear. I should stop looking at her.I need to stop looking at her.

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