“No, we shouldn’t,” he says tightly, glaring up at me. “Now would you give me a hand?”
I’m not sure what he thinks I’m going to do. I’m lucky if I weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and this motorcycle probably weighs ten times that.
“What are you doing in Heaven?” Palms pressed flat against the bike, he pushes, but the heap of steel doesn’t move.
“I’m an angel, where else would I be?” I give my brightest smile, but Motorcycle Man only glares. “Okay. Not the time for jokes. Sorry.”
“You didn’t—” He huffs, pushing again. “—answer my question.”
“How do you know I’m not from Heaven?”
“Because I know everyone in this town. Plus,” he adds, blowing out a sharp breath, “the locals know there’s a curve on this road. Anytime there’s an accident, it’s a tourist.”
“Yes, well, I’m not a tourist.”
He lifts a brow, challenging me, and I clear my throat.
“Okay, fine. I’m a tourist, but not for long. I’m moving here.”
Temporarily, but he doesn’t need to know that
“Why?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Pressing my hands to the tank, I push, hoping our combined strength will be enough to move the bike.
It’s not.
“Well, I do.” Taking a deep breath, he blows it out slowly and gives up on trying to move the bike.
His forehead is pinched in pain, his eyes glassy, and I wonder if maybe he hit his head.
“Listen, I’m trying really hard not to pass out here, so if you could just keep talking and keep me occupied, I’d appreciate it.”
“Um…okay.”
Come on, Lennon. You can do this. When I think about keeping a man occupied, I think about giving him a toe-curling kiss, or slipping my hand into his pants, but I highly doubt Motorcycle Man here wants me crawling on his lap at a time like this. Plus, he probably has a wife at home. A really gorgeous wife.
“Tell me about your tattoos,” I blurt.
His eyes narrow, lips slam shut, and he shakes his head. “Nope. Next question.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says, attempting to adjust himself. “Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenched tight. He looks away as though he’s trying to hide his pain.
Typical man.
Scooting forward, I position myself behind his back and wrap my legs around his hips to support some of his weight.
“Here. Lean back on me. Take some of that weight off. You probably shouldn’t be sitting up anyway. I think you might’ve hit your head.”
Surprisingly, he leans back, the weight of his body causing the palms of my hands to dig into the loose gravel at the side of the road. I do my best to ignore the bite of pain because right here, with my legs wrapped around a stranger on the side of a coastal highway in a foreign town, I feel more comfortable than I have in a long time.
“I didn’t hit my head.”
His words are soft, and I decide it’s better not to argue with him, so I change the subject.
“Now that you’re situated and, you know, more comfortable, you can tell me about your tattoos.”