Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Definitely. Talk to you later, bud.”
“Later.” Fyfe tapped on the screen and was gone.
I blew out a beleaguered breath and snatched my keys off the kitchen counter of my small, one-bedroom flat in Hammersmith. The club Eilidh and her castmates had rented out for their wrap party was in Holborn. But I’d get there in no time on my bike because I wasn’t planning to drink.
The green Kawasaki was the best investment I’d ever made. Getting around London was less stressful with it. My precious Harley-Davidson was parked in my parents’ garage back in Ardnoch because the Kawasaki was the better bike for the city, in my opinion. I longed to get back to the Harley, though. Another reason to miss Ardnoch.
When I first took an interest in motorbikes, it was for the sole purpose of making my way around London more easily. But I soon fell in love with how it felt to ride. Journeys before were contained by vehicles that encased me, walls of metal and glass between me and the outside world. On a bike, the concrete was beneath my feet, the wind against my body. I was part of that outside, connected to it in a way I couldn’t be in a car or a truck or a train or plane. There was something almost therapeutic and invigorating, as if I were part of the wind. Like flying.
I had to be extra switched on, more aware of every turn, every bend, every curve. I’d come off the bike once. Luckily, I was mostly bruised and beaten. Nothing fractured. It was enough to scare the shit out of my mum who begged me to stop riding, but I think my dad knew motorbikes had become integral to me. And I couldn’t stop being me.
He must have convinced her to let it go because she’d not made me feel bad about riding since.
The city was a blur of traffic and lights on a Friday night. People were out in their best clothes, suits and shirts and jeans, heels and skirts and cleavage. I could practically smell the perfume and aftershave already.
Thankfully, there was off-street motorcycle parking near the club. I had an app that told me exactly where I could safely leave my ride.
I pulled off my helmet and secured it beside a passenger helmet I kept in the lockable hard case on the back. Seeing the extra helmet, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken someone out on my bike. It was probably Sean. The last woman on my bike was Charlotte. I threw off the thought of her, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.
I tightened the tie that held my hair up off my neck and reluctantly strode down the back lane toward the club entrance. They asked for my name at the door, and as soon as I stepped inside, a wall of heat and music and the cloying mix of multiple designer fragrances, and alcohol hit me.
The wrap party had clearly grown out of hand because there had to be more than a hundred people here. It was a large space, so it wasn’t jam-packed, but it was crowded enough I couldn’t immediately see Eilidh.
A flash of bright green against dark hair at the bar caught my eye. I moved in that direction, recognizing my sister’s profile as she gestured animatedly with her hands. My gaze flicked to her companion, half expecting some panting moron drooling over her—
I froze on the dance floor, bodies jostling into me at my sudden halt.
Their complaints barely registered as I stared at the woman smiling at my sister.
Callie Ironside.
Callie was here.
The last time I’d seen Callie in real life was in passing. I’d come home for Christmas my second year of university, determined after being away for sixteen months that I could be in Ardnoch. I could see my ex. I’d be fine.
But when she’d seen me across the street from her mum’s bakery, she’d looked right through me. As if I were a stranger.
And it killed me.
So I didn’t go back. Not until I knew she was in France and there was no chance of bumping into her.
Now here she was. In the flesh.
Was her Frenchman here with her?
Panic lit through me at the thought.
In fact, I was seconds from turning and walking back out when Callie suddenly stiffened and snapped her head toward me. As if she’d felt me there.
A sensation, like an electric buzz, flared up my spine. The nape of my neck prickled.
Then I was shoved forward, jerking me out of the feeling.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
I turned toward the apology and found an attractive redhead smoothing down her skirt in a flustered manner. She blinked rapidly as she looked up at me. It was hard to tell under the club’s lighting, but she might have been blushing. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I, uh, don’t know what happened.” Her voice hardened as she shot a dirty look to her left.