If she didn’t look so pathetic, I’d be full-on belly laughing. “Well, let’s go get you something to eat then. Real food, not cookies.”
“I can take myself,” she states, moving to sit up.
I haul her up to her feet, my hands snaking around her small waist to steady her when she sways slightly. “No way, Red. You’re not driving like this. My bike is right out back.”
“I just fainted, and you want me to get on the back of your motorcycle? How is that a better option?”
She makes a good point, so I pivot quickly. “Then give me your keys, and I’ll drive your car. You’re drunk on coffee and starvation right now, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until you eat some pizza.”
“I love pizza,” she replies tearfully.
“I know.”
“How do you know?” She pins me with a serious look, her blue eyes bright and hopeful.
“Well, most people love pizza.” I shrug. “And you had a pizza shirt on the other day and pizza delivered here yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and makes her way over to her computer where it rests on an end table. She closes her laptop and slides it into her bag. “A quick bite and I’ll quit bugging you.”
“Nah, you’re not bugging me,” I reply, stuffing my hands into my pockets. Maybe Sam’s right—I do have a thing for damsels in distress.
“Please,” she retorts with an eye roll. “I practically fainted in your arms. We couldn’t get more book-worthy if we tried.”
She strides over and looks sheepishly up at me, the color already returning to her cheeks. I clasp her hand gently and pin her with a serious look. “Mercedes, there’s no need to be embarrassed. This is not the first time I’ve had a girl faint at the sight of me.”
She barks out a laugh and yanks her hand out of mine to smack me in the stomach. “Just feed me before you start reciting any more cheesy romance novel lines.”
It’s weird to hear Miles call me Mercedes, but not really if I think about it. I go to book signings all over the world where readers and author friends alike all call me Mercedes. A few people in the book world actually know my real name, but they never use it because they don’t want to make the mistake of outing my real name to readers. So in the book world, I’m Mercedes, through and through.
But my Boulder friends know me as Kate.
And now Miles knows me as Mercedes.
This could get tricky.
But then again, we’re just getting pizza. It’s not like we’re becoming Facebook friends or something. I’m making a big deal out of nothing.
Miles pulls my car up in front of Audrey Jane’s Pizza Garage. It’s a hot spot in Boulder that serves tasty New York-style pizza. My mouth is already watering before we even get out of my vehicle.
I slide out of the passenger door, and Miles is right there, grabbing my hand like I’m some kind of surgical patient who just got a boob job. I pull my hand out of his. “I can walk, Miles. I feel better already. The fresh air is helping.”
He nods and respectfully gives me my space while closing the door for me. “Why don’t you grab one of the open patio tables, and I’ll go order us a pie. Any topping objections?”
“No onions,” I state seriously. “Those things are nasty and have no place on pizza.”
“What about red onions?”
I narrow my eyes.
He holds his hands up and smiles. “Okay, okay, no onions.”
He turns and takes the steps up to the restaurant entrance, two at a time, looking like some sort of mammoth gladiator in a world built for mere mortals. Jesus, he’s so big, the steps are almost too tiny for him. And I swear he gets hotter every time I see him. Those jeans hug his ass perfectly, and I gotta say, I never thought combat boots were my thing, but on Miles, paired with those worn jeans, that tight black T-shirt, and his tanned skin? The whole mechanic-biker look is seriously working.
I find a table far away from the acoustic guitarist crooning in the corner. Boulder in the summers is like a haven for happy hours on restaurant patios with live music everywhere the eye can see. The city is bursting with aspiring musicians looking for a mic and an amp.
A few minutes later, Miles is back and has a couple of bottles of water, a bucket of beer, an order number on a stand, and a basket of steaming breadsticks.
He sets them down in front of me and says, “I had to kill a guy for these.”
“I hope you didn’t get blood on them,” I nearly growl as I grab one of the long, swirled golden sticks and instantly pop it in my mouth like a savage. I’m too impatient to even dip in the marinara sauce at this point. “Mmmm,” I groan, my eyes closing as I bite off another chunk and nearly orgasm over the taste. “You are my murderous hero.”
I stuff another buttery bite in my mouth, continuing to moan my appreciation. Once I’ve finished an entire breadstick, I finally open my eyes to find Miles staring at me. His jaw is slack, and his hands are frozen in place on the armrests of the chair. He hasn’t grabbed a beer out of the ice bucket, and he’s not eating. He hasn’t even opened a bottle of water. He’s just…staring.
“Jesus, now what?” I ask, slicking my tongue across my lower lip to catch the dribble of garlic butter on the run.
“You are a walking, fucking tease, you know that?” he states with a shake of his head. He grabs a beer, twists the cap off, and drinks half the bottle in one go.
“How so?” I ask with a laugh, my mouth still full of doughy goodness. “I just stuffed my face with a breadstick like some sort of prepubescent child on the run from fat camp.”
“Then sign me up for fat camp,” he replies and takes another swig.
I glance down at his hard body, scoffing because it doesn’t look like he has a single soft spot anywhere. With a wistful sigh, I reach for a beer, and he quickly pulls the bucket out of my reach.
He eyes me firmly, those sapphire blues turning to slits. “Drink this whole bottle of water, then you can have a beer.”
I tilt my head and hit him with my own withering stare. “I’m twenty-seven years old, Miles. I think I know when I can have a beer.”
“Well, I’m thirty, and on a day you didn’t faint in my arms, I would agree with you. But please, for my own sanity, will you drink some of this first?” He holds the sweating bottle of water out to me and softens his eyes in a way that makes me realize he’s probably used to getting what he wants from the ladies. Maybe even a bigger manwhore than Dean.
Exhaling heavily, I take the bottle and chug down half of the contents in several obnoxious glugs. I lower the bottle, and he shoots me a satisfied smirk that actually makes him look even more handsome. He grabs a brown bottle out of the ice bucket, twists the cap off, and offers it to me.
“Thank you,” I chirp and take a sip, enjoying the taste of alcohol after a long day of writing. Well, writing and fainting.
“Come on, let’s hear it,” he says, setting his beer down and propping his elbows on the table.
“Hear what?” I ask, batting my lashes innocently at him.
“What are you so busy doing every day at the Tire Depot Customer Comfort Center that you starve yourself into a fainting spell?”
I grab another breadstick and pop it into my mouth, chewing with a cocky smirk teasing my lips. “All I can say is that I was ‘in the zone.’”
He smirks back. Damn, I wish my smirk looked half as sexy as his does right now.
“You gotta give me more than that.” He gestures to the space between us. “Let’s call this a safe space. You can share openly, and nothing will be held against you.”
I exhale heavily because I knew there was no way I could break bread with this guy and not fess up. So I proceed to tell him my entire saga, all the way down to my favorite coffee, the pranks, and the side-eye looks.
He’s not really laughing so much as biting his lower lip to stop himself from reacting at all. I continue to rave about the vibe and the people and the coffee. I even go on and on about Betty for a good five minutes. I vomit up everything I’ve been preaching to Lynsey and Dean, as well as my fans on social media. How the Tire Depot is like an unpretentious coffee shop that’s inclusive of everyone. Well, everyone who owns a vehicle, I guess.