Free Own the Wind by Kristen Ashley Page B

piece of paper.
    My first thought was he was left-handed.
    My second thought was that I found that extremely interesting.
    My third thought was that Shy looked perfectly at ease in my kitchen, like he’d been there dozens of times before. Like he was comfortable there. Like he belonged there.
    Crap.
    My apartment was in a decent complex that was well taken care of. However, it was old, though not
that
old. It was also worn but not
that
worn. And the appliances weren’t great but they weren’t
that
bad.
    It was as good a place as any to wait it out until my new life started. I wasn’t going to be there long (or so I thought), the rent was superaffordable, so why not?
    That said, I moved in and made it mine with funky stuff I liked, and I had to admit I was comfortable there. It was small, cozy, took very little time to clean, and was close to the hospital and Chaos.
    Jason lived in a three-bedroom town house that he bought for us to move in together when our lives started. The town house was not worn or old, and the appliances were awesome.
    Jason had grown up in a suburb of Denver, and his parents and one of his sisters still lived there. He’d never had worn or old. Anytime something got too old or broke down, his father replaced it.
    Jason hated my apartment. Not frequently but often enough to make his point, when we were cuddling on the couch watching TV or he was sitting on a stool at the bar watching me ruin dinner, he’d say something like, “Can’t wait until we can get you out of this pit.”
    It wasn’t a pit. It was old and worn, but it wasn’t a pit.
    Jason thought it was a pit.
    Looking at Shy leaning into the counter, he didn’t look like he thought my place was a pit. He didn’t look like he thought anything except whatever he was scratching on the paper.
    “We’ll go to Racine’s on my bike,” he muttered, not looking up. “Tug’s bringing your ride back later. When we get back, we’ll take it and get you to the store. I did an inventory and seriously, Tab, you need to stock up.”
    That was when he lifted his head and looked at me. Two beats after his eyes hit my face, they moved over my hair before they went down then they went back up. They did this slowly with a certain look in them that made my belly flip again.
    On the way back up, I saw a muscle jump in his jaw.
    Okay, maybe I shouldn’t do this.
    His eyes were on another downward run, caught around the area of my breasts when I forced out: “Racine’s?”
    His eyes changed direction and came to mine. He pushed away from the counter, pulled the top paper off the pad and, shoving it in his back pocket, he said, “Yeah, Racine’s. Ready?”
    It hit me then he said he was taking me to Racine’s on his bike.
    I liked this.
    First, Racine’s was awesome, especially for breakfast.
    Second, he was taking me on his bike.
    I had to admit, as much as it killed, that was something I had missed with Jason.
    Bikes.
    I loved riding on the back of a bike, always did. Loved the growl of Harley pipes. I loved even looking at them.
    Jason didn’t do bikes, and as our wedding drew nearer, I’d begun to plot how I was going to talk him around to getting one.
    I hadn’t held high hopes for my plotting.
    This was because he’d once declared, though gently, “I know that was your life, sweetheart, how you grew up. It’s just not my thing and, no offense to your family, it also isn’t real safe.”
    Well, he was in a car when he died, so apparently they weren’t real safe either.
    “Tab, babe, you ready?” Shy asked, and I looked at him. He’d come closer during my minitrance, but he took one look at my face, dipped his close and asked quietly, “Hey, you okay?”
    I sucked in breath, nodded, and answered, “I will be when I’m on the back of your bike.”
    His eyes moved over my face, then his lips turned up, and, finally, he caught my hand and moved me to the door.
    He held my hand as we moved to his bike. He climbed on. I climbed on.