Page 38 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
Me
Without consent.
Megan
Babe, pretty sure no guy feels the need to consent to koalaing.
Me
I’m a sleep predator.
Me
I’m adding this to my list of things therapy can’t fix.
Megan
Right next to “attracted to bad boys with motorcycles”
Me
THAT’S NOT HELPING
I was thinking about lunch when Jake turned up unexpectedly. He stood in my doorway holding a toolbox, looking like every home improvement fantasy I never knew I had.
“I came to fix your tap,” he said.
“What tap?” My brain was clearly still operating at 60% capacity.
“The leaky one in your kitchen that I noticed this morning.”
He’d noticed my leaking tap? While I’d been spiralling about morning breath and existential coffee failure, he’d been cataloguing maintenance issues and planning a fix-it tour?
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m already here, darlin’.” He stepped inside, and suddenly my apartment felt about three sizes smaller. “It won’t take long.”
I followed him to the kitchen, trying not to stare at the way his jeans fit or how his T-shirt clung to his muscles. Professional interest only. Completely academic observation of a man doing manual labour in my personal space.
He set the toolbox on the kitchen counter. Tools clinked as he sorted through them, pulling out a spanner with the kind of casual authority that I should not have found hot, and yet there we were.
“How’s your day going?” he asked as he crouched and did something in the cupboard under the sink.
“Good. Productive. Very . . . focused.” I definitely didn’t mention all my Google searches. “How about you?”
I leaned against the counter, pretending this was a normal afternoon and not a live demo of Savage: Home Edition. Every time his shoulders shifted, his shirt pulled tight across his back, and I knew right then that I wouldn’t be getting much work done after he left. Not when my brain had this new material to work with.
Jake stood and met my gaze, and whoa, the heat in his eyes reached low in my belly. “I’ve been distracted as hell all day. All I can think about is how you felt on top of me this morning.”
“That's—you can't just—” I waved my hand between us. “My brain doesn't have the processing power to handle statements like that at 1 p.m. on a Friday!”
I was met with a sexy smirk. “Fair’s fair, darlin’. You’ve been messing with my brain since the day I met you.”
With that, he got to work fixing my tap. And if you’re wondering what I did, I got back to work. Well, I tried to get back to work, but it’s surprisingly difficult to debug code when there’s a hot biker fixing things in your kitchen. Every clank of tools was like auditory torture designed to destroy my concentration.
Emergency Google search: “how to concentrate on work when hot man is being helpful in your personal space”
Results: Unhelpful. It seems that Google doesn’t have solutions for this specific type of cognitive issue.
