Page 1 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER GOOGLE “WHAT TO DO WHEN A HOT BIKER MOVES IN NEXT DOOR”
Posted by Anonymous at 11:18 p.m.
March 8
Okay, first? The internet is completely fucking useless when it comes to this situation. Like, seriously. I just spent two hours scrolling through advice that ranged from “call the police immediately” to “bake them welcome cookies.” Neither of which seems particularly helpful when the guy who just moved in next door looks like he could carry a Harley while simultaneously being photographed for a leather jacket ad campaign.
And yes, that’s a very specific description of him, but I had a front-row seat to his move-in show today. Not intentionally. I was just trying to get my Saturday morning coffee and Uber Eats delivery (don’t judge, coding until 3 a.m. does things to a girl’s meal schedule). But there he was, carrying a dresser. BY HIMSELF. Up eight flights of stairs because the lift’s been “under maintenance” for approximately forever.
Side note: I actually googled “how much does a Harley weigh” to make sure my comparison was accurate. If Google can be believed, it depends on the model, but they weigh a LOT. I feel like I might need to do further research to verify the exact number. I spent twenty minutes watching him move furniture, and yes, can confirm he could definitely carry a motorcycle. I might have also googled “average bicep circumference,” but we’re not talking about that.
I texted my bestie, Megan, about it:
Me
SOS. Hot biker moving in next door. Send advice.
Megan
On a scale of 1-10?
Me
Gladiator but make it modern menace.
Megan
Pics or it didn’t happen.
Me
I’m not taking creeper photos!
Also me: accidentally opened camera sixteen times while pretending to check my mail
So now, instead of spending my Saturday debugging the nightmare code that Johnson, a senior dev on my team who still somehow thinks I’m his assistant, dumped on my desk yesterday afternoon (special place in hell for that guy, seriously), I’m sitting here questioning everything I thought I knew about my nice, quiet apartment building. You know, the kind of building where the most exciting thing to have happened in the past year was when Mrs Primrose from Unit 4B tried to start a book club that turned into a wine club that turned into a “let’s gossip about everyone under forty” club. (Last week’s hot topic: why the guy in Unit 5A vacuums at 2:30 a.m. The consensus: serial killer clean-up.)
But back to my new neighbour.
Things I know so far:
He owns a Harley
He has approximately 849 tattoos (I counted during Operation: Get Coffee, though my math might be slightly compromised by bicep distraction)
He’s approximately six foot four, has dark hair, tanned skin, the perfect amount of beard, and muscles that should be available to book for study sessions (science research, naturally)
He says exactly three words or less at a time. Examples:
“Need help, sweetheart?” (When I dropped my keys)
“Take your time.” (When I fumbled picking them up)
“Later, sweetheart.” (And just WALKED AWAY like that’s a normal way to end a conversation with a stranger)
I may have practiced dropping my keys fifteen times after that, but the universe clearly hates me because he didn’t show up again. However, Mrs Primrose did catch me, and now thinks I have an inner ear condition. She’s been sending me links to vertigo support groups.
Things I don’t know:
