Page 25 of Power Play Daddies
The parking lot’sdamn near empty, which is perfect. The arena lights are dim, and the asphalt gleams from a light drizzle earlier.
I’ve got my helmet strapped on and my bike humming, ready to take a few laps before the sun dips. The place is usually deserted this time of evening. Nobody bothers me. That’s why I like it.
I turn the corner and—shit.
I slam the brakes, the tires screeching loudly against the pavement. There’s a figure dead in my path. Red hair. Red dress. And what the hell?
It’s her. Daisy Love. The stunning sports journalist who’s been lurking around for interviews.
She stumbles back, her drink splattering across the asphalt, and a bag hits the ground with a dull thud.
“Jesus, are you okay?” I yank off my helmet, my heart racing. “I didn’t see you!”
Her eyes are wide, but she’s still standing. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… startled.” She glances down at the mess. “Well, there goes my milkshake.”
I swing off the bike and crouch, grabbing the bag first. It’s heavier than it looks. “What’s this?” I unzip it halfway, catching sight of a broken lens. “Shit, is this your camera gear?”
Her face drops. “Oh no. Not the lens.” She crouches next to me, inspecting the damage.
“Looks busted.” I hand it over. “Do you have a backup?”
“Nope.” She sighs, pressing her lips together. “I need that for tomorrow.”
Damn. “All right, I’m replacing it.”
“What? No, you don’t have to do that.”
“I do. I was the asshole who almost ran you over. Plus, I’ve got a guy for this kind of thing. He’s fast. Let’s fix it tonight.”
She hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. “You don’t have to?—”
“I insist.” I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “You’ll need it for your interviews, right?”
“Yeah.” She exhales sharply, like she’s about to argue again, but then she nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
I study her face. Her mascara’s smudged, and her eyes are red-rimmed. Crying? “You all right?”
She waves a hand, clearly brushing it off. “Long day.”
I’m not buying it, but I let it slide. “The place is across town. How about we ride there now? I’ll get your lens, and we can grab you another milkshake.”
“Ride?” she squeaks.
“Yeah.” I nod. “So we can beat the traffic.”
She glances down at her heels. “On your motorcycle? In these?”
“Take ’em off.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Take off your shoes. I’ll carry them. You can’t ride in heels.”
She glances around the empty lot like someone might be watching, then back at me. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious. C’mon, you already know where I work. I’m not a serial killer.”
That gets a laugh out of her, soft but real. “Fine.” She slips out of the heels, holding them awkwardly.
