Free Playing for Keeps by Yahrah St. John Page A

one of those,” Quentin said, walking to the Harley.
    â€œWhy is that?” she asked.
    â€œBecause we’re taking this,” he said, hopping on the back of the bike.
    Avery’s eyes grew wide with fear as she walked to the curb. “Surely you jest. There’s no way I’m getting on that death trap.”
    â€œI’m not asking,” Quentin said, throwing her a helmet. “Get on.”
    â€œOh no!” She shook her head vehemently. She’d heard about people getting seriously injured or worse.
    â€œDon’t make me get off this bike and physically put you on it,” he warned.
    â€œI’ve never been on a motorcycle before. What if I fall off?”
    â€œThen I guess you had better hold on real tight, now, hadn’t you?” Quentin chuckled. When Avery didn’t move a muscle, he got off and walked around the bike. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m a good driver and we have helmets to protect us.” He took the helmet out of Avery’s shaking hands and placed it over her head.
    â€œMy hair,” she said when he snapped the helmet in place.
    â€œIt’ll be fine.” Quentin helped her onto the bike. “I promise I’ll take good care of you.” He hopped back onto the bike and turned on the ignition.
    Reluctantly, she wrapped her arms around his middle. “You’d better!” Avery yelled over the roar of the engine.
    â€œHold on,” Quentin said as they took off down the road.
    She held on for dear life. On the forty-minute drive from Manhattan to Parsippany, New Jersey, Avery prayed. She didn’t know why she’d allowed herself to be bullied into getting on this contraption. She must be mad. When they finally stopped at a small strip mall, she drew a long-overdue deep breath.
    Quentin jumped off and took off his helmet. “Are you all right?” he asked, because Avery had had a death grip on him the entire way and he’d barely been able to breathe.
    â€œI’m okay, I think,” Avery replied.
    After she removed her helmet, Quentin secured it on the bike and grabbed her by the hand. “C’mon, you’ll love this place. They have a live Moroccan band and belly dancers.”
    â€œBelly dancers!” Avery exclaimed.
    The restaurant’s large wooden doors opened up into a warm atmosphere with hand-painted murals and a fabric-draped ceiling. The red-and-orange color scheme was a tribute to the many images she’d seen of Morocco and was nothing like any other restaurant she’d ever frequented in New York.
    They were ushered into a large open room where they were seated with other guests on banquettes strewn with ornate pillows. Avery was surprised that there weren’t any tables. Handmade, intricately designed circular gold trays served as their tabletop. Before the meal arrived, a waiter dressed in traditional Moroccan clothing brought over a tasse and a basin, and set them on the small round wooden table.
    â€œWhat’s that for?” Avery asked.
    â€œIt’s for us to wash our hands.”
    â€œWhatever for?”
    â€œBecause we eat with our hands,” Quentin returned, rolling up his sleeves.
    â€œThat’s completely uncivilized.” She was used to eating with utensils.
    â€œIt’s the Moroccan custom. And as they say…when in Rome…” Quentin dipped his hands in the water. “C’mon, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
    He was glad when Avery finally joined her hands with his in the basin. Quentin poured water over her hands with his and although it was a purely innocent gesture, it was highly sensual. And to make matters worse, the restaurant was so crowded, she and Quentin had to sit so closely their thighs touched. It made Avery completely aware of him at her side. She finally had to ask, “Why did you bring me here?”
    â€œBecause I wanted you to try someplace different. Take you out of your