I STEPPED OUTSIDE, glad the summer evening still had a little heat left in it.
I glanced around but didn’t see any sign of Max.
Wonderful.
“Sophie!”
I heard him before I saw him ride up.
On a rent-a-bike.
“What is happening here?” I asked, shaking my head as he pedaled up, looking absolutely ridiculous and kind of adorable.
“Get in the basket, Steinbeck.” His eyes were very nearly dancing as he said, “I’ve seen your ass and I’ve seen this basket, so I know it’s a fit.”
“I’m not sure how to take that,” I said, trying not to laugh but failing miserably as I looked at the oversize basket. “And I’m definitely not going to do that.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Afraid you’re too clumsy to be able to get in?”
“No, and stop trying to use reverse psychology against me.”
“Think about what an amazing photo we can get for our followers of your knight in shining armor, rescuing your sore feet.”
“That would be cute,” I said, and looked at the basket again.
There was something about Max that always made me want to throw caution to the wind. When I was with him, I almost felt like a different person.
Like the kind of person who would ride home in a bicycle basket.
“I’m not sure how to do it in a dress,” I said, thinking logistically as I stepped out of my heels. “Without flashing something. Or spilling our malts.”
“One leg on each side of the wheel, dress tucked into the basket with you.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Boom.”
I gave him an eye roll as I put my phone and keys into my blazer’s pockets. “Hold the handlebars still while I get in, you jackass.”
“Your wish is my command.”
After a few awkward tries, I successfully mounted the bike with my legs splayed around the front wheel, my shoes and our cups in my lap. “I’m fairly certain my backside will remain stuck in this tiny basket forever.”
“I’ll be happy to apply the oil that sets it free, then.”
“Pervert,” I teased.
“Best friend,” he corrected.
“Interchangeable titles.” I pulled out my phone and held it up, capturing Max grinning behind me on the bicycle. “Well, damn, this is adorable. I hate us for being so cute.”
“Are you ready?” he asked, his deep voice rich with amusement as I put the phone back in my pocket. “Hold on tight because I’m pretty sure the handlebars are going to get a little wonky when I first get going.”
“What do I hold on to?” I squealed, laughing even though I had a very high chance of dying. I looked at him over my shoulder and said, “There’s nothing for me to hold on to, Max!”
“Put your hands on top of mine, honey,” he said calmly, his face so mischievous that it was a freaking turn-on, pushing the bike forward with his foot. “And trust me.”
He started pedaling, and I couldn’t believe it was working.
Somehow I was balanced with my ass in the basket and my legs straddling the front tire, so he didn’t have any real problems aside from not being able to see well around me.
“Person on the left,” I called out when we approached a pedestrian, and “Look out!” when a group of women exited the tattoo shop to our right without warning.
I couldn’t see his face, but the sound of Max’s deep voice barking directions and laughing at my squeals had me cackling all the way home.
When we finally reached my building, my stomach hurt, and my mascara was destroyed. I clumsily climbed out of the basket and grinned at Max, who was standing with his long legs straightened around the bike.
I handed him his malt. “That was, um, quite the interesting ride home.”
“But how do your feet feel?” he asked, setting the cup in the basket while looking down at my legs in a way that made them feel slightly wobbly.
“Wonderful,” I said, holding my malt in one hand while holding my pumps in the other. “They’re ecstatic to be free of these and eternally grateful for your rescue.”
“I am a hero, aren’t I?”
“Sure you are.” I don’t know why, but I lingered. For some reason, I didn’t feel ready to leave. I looked down at the bike’s front tire and casually asked, “Do you want to come up? I’m sure Larry would love to watch a Seinfeld rerun with you.”
It was impossible to see his eyes in the darkness, but after a moment he said, “I should probably head home.”
“Boo,” I said, stepping a little closer and running my finger along the rubber-tipped end of the handlebar. “I don’t want to be done celebrating with you.”
“Me either,” he said, reaching out a hand to grasp a slip of my blazer between his thumb and forefinger and tugging. “But nothing good happens after dark.”
“I think we both know that isn’t true,” I said, my breath stopped up in my chest from the insinuation in his words. I knew we shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it; I was hungry for more dark nights with him.
“Nothing smart happens for us. Is that better?” he asked, and I knew by his tone that he absolutely wanted the same thing I did but was just stronger than me.
“No,” I replied, “but I suppose it’s better anyway—it’s a work night. Thanks for the ride, Maxxie.”
There was a sarcastic grin in his voice when he said, “Anytime, honey.”
And that endearment—that stupid endearment that I’d always found so damn generic and lame when other people said it—set me on fire. I shivered at the memory of his words in that hotel room. Fuck, yes, honey, you feel so fucking good.
I watched him ride away on that stupid rent-a-bike, and then I pulled out my phone.
I texted: Do you ever think about the mirror in the hotel room?
I knew it was dumb, but we’d never talked about it. I didn’t know if it was just a weird kink I hadn’t known I possessed, or if it was actually the white-hot moment that it felt like we’d shared.
I went inside, and when he hadn’t responded an hour later, after I’d changed into pajamas, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, I assumed he wasn’t going to. He’d probably decided, in his infinite mature wisdom, that texting about our former sexual liaison was a bad idea and a slippery slope that could only lead to sexting.
Very smart.
Good idea.
Practical, practical Max.
But the minute I turned off my lamp and slid under the covers, the phone buzzed.
Max: If you’re going to ask me that, Sophie Gracie Steinbeck, you better be ready for my answer.
My breathing was immediately shallow, my pulse quickening as I read and reread the message in the darkness of my bedroom. I texted: I’m ready.
Max: I think about it all the time. I’ve literally dreamed about it. Watching you watching me was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.
I swallowed and replied: Agreed.
Max: While we’re at this—you know, stupidly exchanging sex talk like this is a good idea (it’s not)—I think you should know that there’s something about the way you bite and claw that drives me out of my mind.
I texted: I do NOT do that.
Max: No, you fucking grab and lead and are so damn intense that I can barely control myself. I cannot tell you how much I love it.
Me: I mean, I’m glad you liked it but I still don’t think I did that.
Max: Shall I send you a pic of my back?
I made a squealing noise and covered my mouth, half giggling and half dying of embarrassment. I typed: NO.
Max: Just know that I will.
I put my hand on my stomach. This probably IS a bad idea.
Max: Oh, I know that it is.
Me: So we should stop.
Max: Let’s.
Me: After I tell you that the thing you did in the shower . . . with your hands while I was . . .
Max: I knew you loved that. 😉
Me: Yeah, I didn’t make it tough to figure out.
Max: I can still hear your voice.
Me: WE SHOULD STOP.
Max: Yeah, I have to go.
I flopped onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Held my phone up in front of my face and texted: Big plans?
Max: No comment.
I giggled again in the darkness of my bedroom like some middle schooler. I couldn’t stop myself from asking: Cold shower? 😉
Max: I SAID NO COMMENT AND I HAVE TO GO. GOOD NIGHT, MISS STEINBECK.
Me: Good night to you, Mr. Parks.
