“No.”
“They’re really pretty.”
“Tattoos aren’t pretty.”
I shrug. “Mine are.”
That catches his attention. Biker dude cranes his neck to look at me. “You have tattoos?”
I nod, and he narrows his eyes.
“The henna ones don’t count.”
“It’s not a henna. I have—”
I’m interrupted by the call of sirens as the ambulance comes into view. It pulls up along the side of the road, and a couple of men jump out, bags in hand.
“Noah Fucking Cunningham.” The short one shakes his head as he walks toward us.
The tall, lanky one unloads a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. “Only you would wreck your bike and end up in the arms of the prettiest gal in Texas.”
Noah.
Noah Cunningham.
I wasn’t expecting him to be a Noah. He looks too rugged to be a Noah. When I think of Noah, I think of someone sweet, someone less leather and more…tweed.
But I like it. A lot.
“Shut the fuck up, Mikey, and get this goddamn bike off my leg.”
I nudge Noah in the arm. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“That’s all right, darlin’,” Mikey says, squatting down to secure Noah’s leg. “Noah isn’t very nice. In fact, he’s pretty damn grumpy. Unless Nova’s around.”
“Nova?” I ask, hoping it’s his dog. “Is Nova your dog?”
Mikey busts up laughing, and Noah just grunts, something I’m starting to realize he’s good at.
“No? Your car?”
Please let it be your car. It shouldn’t matter because I sure as hell don’t need to be thinking of Noah as anyone other than the poor soul I almost killed, and I sure as hell don’t need to be lusting after him and all his inked-up glory. In fact, I should probably steer clear of men altogether. Especially after what happened with Mathis. (Yes
, he wore tweed.)
Except this man isn’t at all like Mathis. At least I don’t think he is. Only time would tell, and well, time isn’t something we have a whole lot of right now.
“Yes,” Noah grits out between his teeth. “Nova is my car.”
Mikey’s eyes dance with amusement. He smiles knowingly, but doesn’t say anything else, instead choosing to focus his attention where it should be—on Noah’s leg.
In a matter of seconds, the motorcycle is moved and Noah is loaded onto a stretcher.
Glancing down, I assess the damage I caused. Noah’s leg appears to be nice and straight, which has to be a good thing, but blood has seeped through his jeans, and there’s a giant rip in the denim, exposing a nasty-looking cut above his knee. I have to look away before I throw up.
“It’s just a little blood,” Mikey whispers before loading Noah into the ambulance. He shuts the doors and turns to me. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him. I’d offer you a ride, but a police officer is on the way to take your statement.”
My statement? “Right.” Because I just caused an accident. “Okay. I won’t go anywhere.”