Page 71 of The Belle and the Biker

I learn one thing. Shower sex takes skill. And if you do it right, you aren't worried about slipping. Not when you have a Crash to catch you if you fall.

CHAPTER22

Savannah

I’min a post-sex fog this morning, and I’ve lost count of how many times Crash has made me see stars since yesterday. We were awake till dawn and slept in until 11 a.m.

I wake up alone but can hear Crash’s voice outside the window. I sit up and see Crash pacing outside in the parking lot, talking to someone on the phone. He looks annoyed about something.

When he comes back in, though, he’s all smiles. He stands there in the doorway, his dark hair mussed, his eyes caressing me. I want to wake up like this every day for the rest of my life.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says. “It’s beautiful out. Want to go for a walk and then get some lunch?”

I yawn and stretch before I answer. “You’re playing my song. We burned a lot of calories last night. I need to get my strength back.”

“Amen to that.”

“Who were you on the phone with?”

“Some idiot.” His forehead creases in a brief scowl. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing to do with us, and I’d rather focus on having a great time with you. We’ve got seven months of wasted time to make up for.”

Who knew that Crash McClanahan could be all sweet and mushy? I hope he stays like this forever.

I shower fast and get dressed. Even the hideous wig and outfit I’m forced to wear before I’m allowed to leave the trailer can’t put a dent in my mood.

Crash holds my hand as we walk, and we fall into a perfect rhythm, even though he’s easily eight inches taller than me.

I’m limping a little bit as we make our way toward the beach, and of course, Crash has to point it out.

“Pulled a muscle, huh?” He smirks just as we walk by a group of tourists with beach bags who are moseying on the boardwalk leading to the seaside.

“My goodness! How crude.” I blush and stop walking so they can pass us.

“That’s me.” But he’s smiling.

His hand closes around mine.

“I talked to Harper yesterday,” I say. “The owner of the Bitter End Boutique.”

His smile fades a little. “What did you talk about?”

“Oh, she has this new line of clothes that she wishes I could model for her, and she’s working on some designs that she’d like to have made up someday. She texted me the pictures. They’re adorable, and the concept is great. Locally made clothes for plus-size Southern gals. She just needs to find financing for them. Unfortunately, her credit’s not that good. If she finds financing, she could get my cousin Daisy and her husband to brand and sell them.”

“What else did you talk about?” A scowl creases his handsome forehead.

I look at him in confusion. “Well, not much else. I mean, she mentioned that my gross cousin Harold told her that he might finance it if she let him, ah, have his way with her. And she threw him out of the store. Now that the cat’s out of the bag about his inheritance, he’s hitting on every girl in town. What? Why are you giving me that look?”

He’s frowning. “I don’t want you calling anyone but your aunt until this shooting thing is resolved.”

“Are you serious?” I demand.

“Did you tell her where you are?”

“Of course not! Not that she’d say anything to anyone. At all. Everyone in town knows about the shooter gunning for me, and they wouldn’t say a word to a stranger.”

“They what?”

I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Crash, it’s Bitter End. There is no way to keep a secret. Sneeze on one end of town, and before you’ve finished saying ah-choo, someone on the other end of the town is texting, ‘God bless you.’ And your gramma is texting, ‘I told you to take vitamin C,’ and by the time you get home, your mother’s got a clean kerchief for you to replace the one you used.”

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