Free The Girl Who Wasn't by Heather Hildenbrand Page A

he
asks.
    His voice is rough and close. Our
chests are only inches apart. He is looking down at me with quiet
concern and I shiver again—this time for an entirely different
reason.
    “ No,” I whisper.
    The silence hangs like a sharp edge
between us. I feel as if at any moment, we’ll turn a corner and
rush headlong into … something. I don’t know what. So I stand
there, not breathing, waiting. Finally, he blinks and the sharpness
rounds out into nothing. I feel relieved and crushed all at
once.
    “ We better go,” he says,
dropping my hand.
    He leads me to the access door and down
the stairs without another word. We catch the elevator on the tenth
floor, avoiding whatever is left of the party. I’m glad for that.
Despite my assurances, my head is pounding now that I’m
moving.
    When we make it outside, he turns to
me, apologetically. “The others took the car. All I have to get you
home is my motorcycle. Is that okay?”
    I falter in my step. “It’s
fine.”
    His head tilts. “Have you ever ridden
one?”
    I am tempted to say that I’ve only
barely ridden in cars, much less a motorcycle, but I don’t. “No,” I
say simply.
    He stops in front of a black motorcycle
that’s all hard angles and quiet muscle and hands me a helmet he
unstraps from the handlebars. “Put this on.”
    I fumble with it for a moment before he
takes over, moving my fingers aside and nimbly working the snaps
into place. He takes off his jacket and holds it out for me to slip
into.
    “ I can’t. It’s yours,” I
say. “Besides, I have mine.”
    He shakes his head. “That’s not going
to be enough to keep you warm once we get moving. Trust me.” We
both look down at my mostly bare legs. “You’ll have to hike your
dress up to swing a leg over. Just … press close to me.”
    I pretend the words don’t send a hungry
shiver through me. “What about you?”
    “ I’ll be fine.”
    I slip one arm, then another, into
sleeves that are too long, and zip it up. It feels heavy and bulky
around my shoulders, but I assume the padding is for safety and I
don’t complain. My belly is jumping from anticipation and fear as I
eye the machine next to us. There’s something sensuous about
it—like whispered danger.
    “ The main thing to know is
how to turn. You have to lean into it and let the bike do the rest.
If you’re not sure, press against me and move when I move. Got
it?”
    I don’t really, but I nod
anyway.
    “ Just do what I do,” he
adds.
    He helps me into his gloves, also too
big, and then we’re ready. He swings a leg over and knocks the
kickstand back in a practiced move.
    I stand there, eyeing all of the parts,
and trying to figure out the best way to get on behind him without
falling over—or revealing any more of me in this too-short dress.
He turns the key and the bike revs to life underneath him. He looks
over and though I can’t see his expression behind his helmet, it
feels serious. There is a quiet energy between us.
    “ Get on,” he says, voice
muffled. He holds his hand out and I take it tentatively, trying to
figure out where to step and where to grab as I slide in behind
him. I ball my skirt into my fist and use the other to grab his
shoulder.
    He waits a beat while I orient myself
and then the engine revs. The entire machine shakes with soft,
swift vibrations. Goose bumps spread from my thighs to my
knees.
    I wrap my arms softly around his
midsection, unsure, feeling overly forward if I grab on too
tightly.
    “ You’re going to want to
hang on,” he says as if reading my thoughts. The inside of my
helmet heats as my cheeks burn. I’m glad he can’t see my face.
“Ready?”
    I tighten my grip. “I think so.” My
wavering voice makes me sound like a liar. “Is this thing safe?” I
can’t help but add. He shakes with laughter and we ease
forward.
    The bike is a life of its own
underneath me, humming and vibrating, and then he punches the gas
and it’s smooth and sleek—and fast. The