“How did we meet?” she asked. “I can’t quite figure out what to say that will be believable.”

“Because the idea of us makes absolutely no sense?” I offered lightly. I mean, I could have been insulted, but she was right—we didn’t make sense.

“Yes.” She sighed. “I’m not very good at acting.”

She sounded so forlorn, I was almost sorry for her.

“My mom once told me that love doesn’t make sense.” As soon as I said the words, I winced, feeling like a sentimental fool. I was never sentimental. But I pushed on. “Falling for someone isn’t about logic. It’s chemistry.”

She was quiet for a second. When she answered, she sounded softer than before. “That’s … well, that’s surprisingly romantic.”

Don’t go there, honey.

“Yeah, well, it’s a good line of attack. I’ll tell them …” I rubbed my neck and stared out the grimy window where the sun shone down on the black tar rooftops. “I’ll tell them I was on my way to meet my brother for a drink.”

She snorted loudly.

I bit back a grin. “I was late and in a hurry so I wasn’t watching where I was going. You were walking out of the door. I was going in. We collided. And there I was, my hands full of this irate little pixie with the prettiest brown eyes I’d ever seen. How could I resist? So I asked you to join me for a drink to make up for nearly plowing you down. But it was just an excuse because I knew I’d be a fool to let this gorgeous uptown girl walk out of my life without at least trying to get to know her first.”

Utter silence met me on the other side of the line. It was so quiet, I could hear a morning news program playing on her end. An uncomfortable flush worked its way up my chest. This is why I didn’t talk too much.

“Parker? You there?”

She made a noise in the back of her throat, as if she were choking. “Yes. Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”

“Well? What do you think? Will that pass muster?”

Silence greeted me again and I swore I heard her mutter “fiddlesticks.” But then she answered crisp as new bed sheets. “Yes. That’s … good. Perfectly adequate.”

Perfectly adequate? Well, hell. I thought I’d done all right. It had been kind of sappy, sure, but I couldn’t see anyone not believing it.

She cleared her throat and charged on. “The party starts at seven thirty. Boston Harbor. We could meet—”

“I do not meet my women for dates. I pick them up. Always.”

“Morgan,” she said with asperity, “I am not your woman.”

She couldn’t see my grin, but it didn’t stop me. “Tinker Bell, I have a contract that says otherwise. Better get used to it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Sand snakes,” she snarled under her breath.

Whatever that meant.

“Oh, and Tink?”

“What?” Another snarl. Such joy and light from my irate pixie.

“Prepare yourself for some physical contact. Because I touch my woman. Always.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

I paused, my hand hovering near the small of Parker’s back as she halted on the sidewalk outside her apartment. “What am I trying to do?”

I honestly didn’t have a frickin’ clue what she was thinking. Hell, I was trying my best not to look too closely at her. If I did, I might not stop. Parker wasn’t dressed like any of my usual dates. She was wearing a black halter-top dress that started at her collar and skimmed her slim form to a few inches below her knees. It wasn’t tight and revealed nothing but her tanned shoulders and arms. It was incredibly sexy.

Maybe because it didn’t show everything. Only hinted at it. I had to use my imagination. My imagination was vivid.

I itched to undo the clasp at the back of her long, graceful neck and see that top slide down to her waist. She didn’t have large breasts. They were little cupcakes. Goddamn, but I wanted a bite.

I pushed the thought away and peered down at her big brown eyes. She’d put on makeup, some shimmery gold color that made her eyes the color of rich coffee. Her petal-pink lips pursed in annoyance.

“You think I’ll balk at riding this stupid motorcycle and then you can play Mr. Superior about it.”

I glanced at my Harley Fat Boy, and then at her dress. That fancy silk dress hugging her hips and slim legs. Hell. “You might not believe it, sweetheart, but I didn’t actually think.”

Her brow quirked. “Oh, I believe that.”

Funny.

Grunting, I rubbed my jaw—which was now smooth and bare. Yes, I’d shaved for her. I’d put on fresh pressed gray slacks and a cream cashmere top. Both from my circuit days. They were a little loose on me; I’d lost about ten pounds of muscle since I’d stopped training. But I had them on. I’d done it for her. An effort lost to the blunder of picking her up with my Harley.

“I’ll call us an Uber.” I pulled out my phone but her slim hand on my wrist halted me. Why I felt that touch all the way to my balls was a mystery for the ages.

“This wasn’t a trick?” She eyed me like a little human lie detector.

“Fucking hell, Tink. I’m not out to get you here. I’m getting something out of this arrangement too. I just didn’t think. I have a bike. It’s what I ride. But I’ll get us an Uber, all right?”

My verbal spew ended in a ringing silence. The sun was sinking, shrinking golden rays that highlighted the red strands in her hair. She had it pulled back in one of those fancy updos that lay like a coiled snake at the back of her head. Delicate pearl earrings dangled from her small ears. Everything about Parker Brown was delicate and pretty.

An illusion. The woman had an iron core.

“You really shouldn’t cuss so much,” was all she said. “It shows a lack of imagination.”

“Bullshit.”

Her brows kicked up. “It’s not bull … bull-hockey.”

Bull-hockey. Jesus. This woman.

“It is.” I laughed at her scowl. “Cursing is a sign of intelligence and those who do it frequently are both happier and healthier than the poor repressed souls who keep it all in.”

“Oh, bull-pucks.”

“Hockey? Pucks? What’s next? Bulls on skates?”

A flush worked over her cheeks, and she growled.

I laughed again. “Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

“I will.” She stomped over to my bike. “Are we going, or should we stand here talking nonsense all night?”

If I had my choice, we’d talk nonsense.

“You really going to ride on this?” I handed her the spare helmet I’d brought along.

She sniffed, all polite irritation, and put it on. It was adorably huge on her head. “My mode of transportation is a bicycle. I think I can manage.” And then she did something I knew was designed to kill me. She pulled the skirt of her dress high up her thighs, exposing some truly spectacular legs, and straddled the bike.

I stared at those beautiful, smooth legs, imagining my tongue tracing a path up the curve of her thigh, and my dick twitched. I got on my bike before I had a situation going on in my pants that would make driving uncomfortable.