Page 23 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
I CAN’T MATH RIGHT NOW
Me
I’ve changed clothes six times.
Megan
Just wear the black jeans that make your butt look good.
Me
But what if I fall off and die in them? They’ll be ruined.
Megan
You’re right. Maybe don’t wear them in case you die. They’ll be no good to me ruined.
Me
NOT HELPING
I spent three hours getting ready. THREE. HOURS. I finally settled on the black jeans, sturdy boots that covered my ankles (because I am not emotionally prepared for third-degree road rash that I now know all about after extensive googling), and a pink top under the black leather jacket I panic-bought this morning after a Reddit thread scared the shit out of me with all the skin graft talk. I also bought leather gloves during that shopping trip. They were slightly too tight, but at least my hands would be protected.
My outfit made me feel confident.
Or, okay, as confident as someone can feel when they’re about to climb onto a giant roaring death machine with a man whose arms could crush a watermelon and whose silence is somehow louder than my spiralling brain.
But still. The boots were solid. The jacket made me feel like a biker-adjacent badass. The top? Pink and fitted and maybe a little too flirty for a “please don’t let me die” kind of outing, but whatever.
I felt cute. Which was actually a worry. Historically, the moment I start feeling cute is the moment life immediately throws a banana peel in my path.
But I was telling myself this was fine. I could handle this date. Even if my anxiety was still waving red flags like it was in a Formula 1 pit crew.
That confidence lasted exactly three seconds after Jake arrived.
He stood there in a black T-shirt that showcased every muscle and tattoo on his arms, dark jeans, and that leather jacket that transforms him from hot neighbour to walking danger. One look at his eyes, blue and intensely focused on me, and my stomach did this swooping thing that felt like falling.
Then, his eyes trailed down my body—and this is the important part—his gaze lingered on my boots. Just for a moment.
“You came prepared,” he said, like he hadn’t expected me to and liked being wrong.
His voice was quiet and warm in a way that made my stomach drop, but it was the subtle approval in his tone and eyes that affected me the most. I didn’t know I had a praise kink until that exact second, but it turns out I might be the kind of person who’d do unspeakable things just to hear Jake say, “good job.”
“I googled,” I blurted. “You’re not supposed to ride without ankle protection or a jacket because of abrasion risks. And pipe burns. And sudden, high-speed contact with asphalt. Basically, I just didn’t want to lose a layer of skin today.”
Nailed it. Very chill. Very normal. Definitely not listing my medical fears to a man I’m mildly feral for.
His mouth curved into a devastating smile. “Smart girl.”
OH. MY. GOD.
Forget hearing him say good job. Forget a basic praise kink because mine just got a software update. My actual new kink is being called smart by a hot biker while he looks at my boots like he wants to pin me against a wall and explain countersteering.
And yes, I know what countersteering is. I watched an entire video about it at 1:40 a.m. after falling into a biker safety rabbit hole. He’d say the word and I’d just nod like I was born knowing it.
We made it out of the apartment somehow, despite my brain being fully stuck on him calling me smart. I followed him to the car park where his bike waited, gleaming and growly looking and more intimidating than any vehicle has a right to be.
When we reached his bike, I pulled my new gloves from my pocket and put them on. Jake turned to me as I flexed my fingers, trying to ease the tightness of the leather.
