Page 8 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
March 20
So, I was going to stop making up excuses to run into Hot Neighbour. I really was. Yeah, that lasted approximately zero seconds when I realised working late in the office meant catching him coming home from . . . whatever bikers do at night. (Still unclear on the details. Still too scared to ask.)
Me
I’m staying late at work again.
Megan
To fix Johnson’s code or to stalk Hot Biker?
Me
Both?
Megan
At least you’re honest.
Me
I’m a complex woman with multiple motivations.
Megan
You’re a disaster with a crush.
Me
Why are we friends?
Megan
Because I enable your poor life choices while pretending to judge them.
But tonight? Tonight was different.
It was 9:30 p.m. I was walking home from the office because I lost track of time fixing Johnson’s latest disaster (seriously considering sending his code to Savage for that “knows people” solution he offered). I was in my comfort coding clothes. Ripped jeans, faded T-shirt, hair in what can only be described as a bird’s attempt at architecture. The last time Mrs Primrose saw me in this state, she actually clutched her pearls, and I overheard her telling the Wine Club that my “progressive hairstyle choices” must be “some sort of cyber signal to her hacker collective.” She’s not entirely wrong; my hair does tend to reflect my coding stress levels. Tonight, it was saying “Johnson’s code made me contemplate arson.”
Anyway, there he was. Working on his bike in the building’s car park. No shirt. I repeat: NO SHIRT.
(Taking a moment of silence for my dignity, which straight up abandoned me at this point. Also taking a moment to thank whichever goddess is in charge of shirtless bikers. Though knowing my luck, any attempt at prayer would probably result in Mrs Primrose adding “potential cult activity” to her theories about me.)
Him: “Bit late to be walking home alone, darlin’.”
My mouth: “Had to finish some work.”
My brain: ABS ABS ABS ABS
What the Wine Club definitely wrote in their observation log: “Subject A (possible cybercriminal) encountered Subject B (suspected undercover model) in state of partial undress. Pearls were clutched.”
He stood up (which was totally unnecessary and completely unfair), grabbed a rag to wipe his hands (also unfair), and then just . . . looked at me. You know that look that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world? Yeah. That one.
Him: “You could’ve called. I would’ve picked you up.”
Me: temporarily forgets entire English language
Also me: “Oh, I didn’t . . . I mean . . . I don’t have your number . . .”
