I keep walking and see that ‘asshole’ is now parked in the spot next to mine. I take in the Harley, with its matte black and chrome finishes and hate that I’m envious. It’s a damn nice bike. Clearly custom and tailored to its owner.
Speaking of its owner, they throw their leg over the bike and when the helmet is removed, my jaw drops. Standing in skintight jeans and a black leather jacket is a woman. And not just any woman. She’s a dead ringer for the woman I always envisioned on my arm through life… before I was blown to hell by a bomb and one leg short.
She shakes her head and finger combs her long blonde hair. Seemingly satisfied that she’s fixed her helmet hair, she whirls around and runs straight into my chest, practically bouncing back at the contact.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Not what I would have expected to come out of that sinfully sexy mouth.
“God, you must think I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to cut it so close back there.” She hitches a thumb over her shoulder to indicate where she almost mowed me down. “It’s just…I’m running very late, and traffic was a bitch and then I had the address wrong so that de—”
She slams her mouth shut and breathes deeply through her nose. This does nothing to cool the boner that’s forming in my boxer briefs. It’s the first time my dick has reacted to anything since the bombing so I’m not even mad that I might embarrass myself.
“Let me start over.” She smiles and even under the flickering light that supposedly makes the parking lot ‘safer’, there’s no denying the way it reaches her eyes. “Hi.”
She thrusts her hand out for me to shake and without thinking, I take it.
“I’m Isabelle Mallory.”
Son of a fucking bitch.
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