“You’re on,” Travis said.
“And I’m betting that neither of you serves the most,” Becker chimed in, trying to keep the mood light. “And you can put me down for heads or tails on that one.”
“Who are you betting on, then, boss?” Travis asked.
“Anyone else. Anyone else but you two peacocks. Now get out of here.”
“Aunt Jemima, here I come,” Travis said as they strolled to the red truck parked outside.
The other guys on shift were upstairs, so Becker was effectively alone in the firehouse, and immediately thoughts of Megan descended upon him. He was gripped by the memory of her beautiful body, of the soft skin of her thighs, of the way she’d finally let down her tough-but-playful guard when he was buried between her legs. She was so vulnerable then as she’d arched into him, her spine bowing, her hair spread out across a pillow, her hands grappling in his hair. He could get lost in her touch, in pleasing her, in bringing her to the edge of desire again. The way she responded to him, to his lips, his mouth, his touch, was both an intense turn-on and also a balm to the loop that played too often in his head. When he was with her, there was nothing else in his head but her.
Pleasing her had made him feel good. Made him feel great, even. Like a painkiller that numbed all the noise. He wanted to go back there, to lose himself in her.
He pushed a rough hand through his hair.
He’d have to run for ten miles tomorrow to get that woman out of his mind, especially since she’d be here soon to go over the calendar. But daily tasks would do the trick for now, so he went through his usual morning routine of checking the equipment on the engine and making sure everything was in its proper place, until he heard the rumbling sound of a motorcycle pulling into the parking lot of the station.
He walked over to the open garage door and took in the sight before him. The motorcycle being parked. The kickstand knocked to the concrete by a black leather boot, and a woman dismounting the bike she’d been straddling.
He leaned against the wall, curious to watch. He was enjoying the view 100 percent and then some. Especially when the woman took off her helmet, shook out her hair once, twice, and a cascade of thick chestnut hair fell past her shoulders.
Of course.
Of course the owl-tatted girl rode a bike. She reached into the small storage space on the back of the bike and removed a sturdy navy-blue bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She gave him a curt wave, then glanced around the firehouse, maybe looking to see who else was there. Only him, and when it registered, she flashed a sweet smile as she walked up.
“Hey,” she said softly, and that one word was like a reminder that they’d shared something more the other night.
“Hey, Megan. Or should I call you Miss Megan?” he asked, picking up on Travis’s nickname for her.
“Please don’t call me Miss Megan. It took me long enough to train him off using both names. You know he used to call me by my middle name too when I was younger?”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Megan Margaret. He thought it was the height of hilarity—don’t ask me why—to call me Miss Megan Margaret. Made me crazy.”
“Why?”
“It’s so looonnnng,” she said, stretching out the word. “And it’s so proper. Miss Megan Margaret is for a woman who goes to finishing school, who wears white gloves and jaunty hats and goes sailing.”
He laughed. “I take it you don’t wear jaunty hats?”
She patted her head as if looking for a hat. Then shook her head. “Nope. But I do like to draw jaunty hats on tigers or giraffes.”
“Well, of course,” he said, not wanting to let go of the thread of the conversation, of how they’d somehow slid right back into the chatter that had marked their Friday night. He leaned against the side of the truck, and she followed suit. They were facing each other. “So if Miss Megan Margaret wears gloves and goes sailing, then Megan rides a bike and plans to be a tattoo artist?”
Her eyes widened, and she brought her finger to her lips. “Shhh…”
“Travis and Smith are out at a pancake breakfast and the other guys are upstairs. It’s just you and me.”
“I know, but still. I haven’t told him that. I haven’t really told anyone the details even though it’s been my dream.”
His lips curved in a small smile. “But you told me. At least a little bit,” he said softly, remembering how she’d said “someday soon” so wistfully when she talked about the opportunity to turn her drawings into body art.
“Yeah, I guess I did. I just found out that day that I landed an apprenticeship at a shop in Portland. Travis knows I’m going to Portland, but I haven’t told him yet about the job and how much I’ve wanted it. I think he figures if I don’t have a job he can convince me to stay here.” She met his eyes. Hers were wide, with a hint of vulnerability. “And there I go again. Telling you my hopes and dreams.”
“I like hearing them,” he said softly.
They weren’t touching; they were simply talking, but somehow this conversation was starting to feel as intimate as spending the night together. In both the things they’d held back and the things they’d shared—then and now—there was something between the two of them. A magnetic pull, maybe. Something that started with chemistry but was now turning dangerously close to…interest.
“I guess I like talking to you,” she admitted in a low voice.