Page 83 of Fly Back to Me
“Hey,” he greets, marching up the couple cement steps.
“Hey.” My voice is soft. “Sorry, my roommate was being a jackass.”
My eyes lift when he’s a few inches away, those blue-gray eyes fragmented with gold from the light behind me. A glint of amusement clinging to them as he tosses a glance over my shoulder. “I can wait if you need some more time to get ready.” Then his gaze traces over me, his rich and woody scent coiling under my nose like a cyclone. “But I’d have to question your judgment a little bit when you already look this beautiful.”
The compliment rolls off his tongue with ease, yanking a tiny grin from me. “I’ll get my coat.”
My smile touches my ears when I duck back into the entryway. I pull my leather jacket off the wooden bench, coasting both arms through the sleeves before tugging my belt bag across my chest.
I step outside as I shut the front door, and Cade’s body is half-turned to face me. He dips his chin to locate my hand, his palm dangling until mine is clasped in it.
The grating of his coarse skin flips my belly as I say, “You haven’t told me where you’re taking us.”
“You’re unpredictable,” he says as we stroll down the concrete strip. “I assumed you like your experiences the same way.” I beam, and he chances a glimpse my way. “There’s no way I’m wrong.”
I shake my head before we reach his motorcycle. “No, you’re not.”
His palm slips from mine, retrieving a helmet around the handlebar. The white vanes of the feather pop in my periphery, my throat instantly bobbing as I take the gear from him. “Just like the fairytale, huh? Picking you up on my white horse?” he teases.
A warmth frames my heart, prepared to spread to every crevice of the organ as my grin reflects his.
You have no idea.
“Something like that, yeah,” I play along.
He offers his hand for me to nestle my wrist in, and I swing my leg over the vinyl seat. The swells of the bench graze my panties—a lethal ingredient mixed with his proximity beside the bike.
He assists me with my helmet, his palms tugging the hard shell forward until my forehead is snugly inside. He tunes the adjustment strap, only to bend to ensure my feet are planted securely on the foot pegs. Then I pick up where he left off, buckling my head in when he straddles the front of the seat.
Cade shifts to swipe his helmet from the chrome bar, peeking over his shoulder as he says, “You knew we were riding my motorcycle and still wore a dress.”
My palms lightly curl around his sides as I lean in. “I thought I’d give you your own fairytale.”
His chin tips up as he slicks his hair back with one hand. “Oof, I think I just fell in love.”
I giggle when he swiftly glides the shell over his head. He snaps the gear in place, and a deep growl ignites beneath us. Adrenaline catapults through my body, my arms finally wrapping around Cade’s leather wall of a chest.
Then we’re roaring down the dark street.
Wafts of maple and rich vanilla steal my senses through the brightly lit room. “This is overwhelming. There’s too much to choose from,” I say, my eyes scanning the collage of cereal box covers on the back wall.
I’ve never been to an ice cream and cereal bar before, let alone Mix-It-Up. At least that’s what the neon sign in the center of the rear wall emphasizes.
“Isn’t it a no-brainer for you to choose Cinnamon ToastCrunch or something?” Cade asks beside me.
I shrug. “I can stray away from the norm from time to time.” Both of us inch forward just as the order counter clears, and a teenage girl greets us in a black cap and apron on the other side. “Can I get a cup of vanilla ice cream with Cinnamon Toast Crunch?” I request.
Cade’s breathy chuckle is short-lived when the girl’s chin tips to him. “Uh, I’ll take a cup of chocolate ice cream with Cocoa Puffs.”
“Great, I’ll get that ready for you.”
When the employee strides off, I peer up at him through my lashes, a playful smirk tracing my lips. “So sexy and masculine ordering cocoa puffs in your ice cream.” My fingers shimmy over him, and his icy blues pin me under the white lights. “Really rounds out the motorcycle and rugged image you’ve got going on.”
A coy smile sprouts from him when he directs his head forward, and he swipes a tattooed hand down his chin. “Is there really a masculine cereal though?”
“Wheaties,” I respond.
Cade winces. “No one is getting Wheaties in their ice cream.”
