“Sorry. Just a little hooky-day humor. Hmmm ... You’ve got all day, right? Let me think about it, and when I come up with something, I’ll text you. Is that good?”

Seeing as I was pulling into my driveway and couldn’t exactly sit locked in the car to wait out Beck’s brainstorming session, that was going to have to do. “That’d be great, thanks. Assuming I’m not completely shell-shocked after my day on a motorcycle, I’ll definitely be looking for advice. Think subtle,” I urged, picturing her pinkness, fully aware that I was charging her with a very likely impossible task—subtle was not exactly Beck’s forte.

“Gotcha. Good luck. Take full advantage of the situation, and call me when you can, prepared to dish! Bye!”

And then it was just me, alone, with Sean and the bike parked beside me on the driveway purring quietly. I stared at it through the car window, the swoops and curls of chrome and leather, with its jaunty leprechaun green accents. It almost seemed friendly. Almost. Much as I dreaded it, I felt compelled to get out of the car.

“Ready, then?” Sean asked, irritatingly chipper.

“No.” My attitude could best be described as petulant. I was already thinking of reneging on the whole deal to scurry back to the safety of my cubicle.

Sean laughed, which didn’t help, then quickly sobered.

“Right, then. Why don’t you try just sitting on it? We’ll slide your helmet on, and you can just sit until you’re ready to move on.”

Sitting in a helmet. That had a safe ring to it. “Fine,” I mumbled, cautiously edging forward.

Bracing his left foot on the driveway, Sean swung his right leg over and off the bike in a smooth, competent motion. He then unhooked the spare helmet from its spot on the seat and slowly slid it onto my head. I was officially a bobblehead. He dipped his head down to look at me and grinned. “Ready to climb on?”

I managed a nod that seemed to go on long after I’d stopped consciously moving my head and, gripping the handlebars, swung my leg up and over. After a couple of uneventful seconds I turned toward Sean, a shaky grin creasing my previously starched face.

“You’re a natural. Ready to start her up and take a little ride?”

The grin slid quickly away, right along with my tact. “No.”

“Just to the end of the driveway and back,” Sean pressed. Before I could reject this idea, he’d slid onto the bike behind me and brought his arms around to cover my hands on the handlebars. “Trust me, luv,” he urged.

Rather than comfort me, his words derailed my confidence. The truth was I couldn’t figure out who to trust: myself, Sean, Fairy Jane, or any of my life’s little cheerleaders. But that was a bigger issue. This was just about a motorcycle—everything else could wait. I concentrated on Sean’s arms, and the warm contact points where our bodies met, and the fact that I did trust Sean to get me safely down the driveway and back.

Relieved that he couldn’t see my face, I nodded once, bobbing the bobblehead.

Wordlessly, Sean revved the engine and walked the bike around to face the street. Then he lifted both feet from the pavement and puttered us down the gently sloping driveway all the way to the street. He turned us neatly, and with a little twist of his wrist, we rocketed forward a little faster, shooting up the driveway with a buzz and a hum to stop once again beside my safe and quiet little car. Sean shifted the engine back to neutral and climbed off, leaving me to settle into the idea of whipping around the city on a breezy Wednesday morning in March.

“You’re hooked, aren’t you?” Sean taunted, dragging a smile out of me.

Our mini test drive might not have fazed me, but I had no delusions that our driveway jaunt would be in any way comparable to zipping around Austin at ten times the speed. But butterflies or not, I needed to risk it. Because if there was any chance of making things work with Sean, I was going to have to learn to be open to compromise and the occasional outlandish adventure.

I turned to Sean to give him the thumbs-up and spotted Leslie sauntering across the lawn in some sort of tangerine caftan, a pale avocado mask smeared over her face. Super.

Before launching into the inevitable commentary, she gave Sean the once-over, flicked her eyebrows up as if to say, “Where were you when I decided to switch teams?” and settled her gaze on me.

“My, my, my,” she started, feathering a hand to her ample bosom in an “I do declare” sort of way. “Do my cucumber-soothed eyes deceive me, or is that our own sweet Nicola James atop that monster of a motorcycle? Surely not.” She seemed oddly flirty. I kept my guard firmly up.

“Hi, Leslie. Late class?”

“I don’t need to be on campus till noon on Wednesdays. But I can’t imagine what sort of apocalyptic situation lured you away from work.” Her gaze, dragged inexorably back to Sean after each whiff of a glance at me, finally settled in to stay. “Are you the emergency?”

“Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted, oozing charm. “Sean MacInnes, Bad Influence.” This came off as simultaneously cocky and self-deprecating.

Leslie shifted sinuously forward, and I almost expected a little forked tongue to slip between her lips and flicker about in intimidating fashion. But she merely extended her hand, palm down, the picture of silver screen moxie, particularly with the green goo. “Leslie Innerbock, Original Bad Influence,” she purred.

Insert eye roll.

“She seems relatively uncorrupted,” Sean pointed out after dutifully bestowing a kiss and releasing Leslie’s hand.

Leslie’s lip curled; I could tell she was grudgingly impressed. “What can I say? Perhaps you have more persuasive ... tools”—her gaze raked down and lingered before whipping up again—“at your disposal. And what woman can resist a man in a kilt?”

I turned away to hide the grin I could no longer hold back. But conscious of the unpredictability of both participants in this showdown, I knew I’d have to intercede before things got hideously embarrassing. For me, that is. I schooled my features and turned back.

“Whoa. Down, girl. Just think of this motorcycle as that mechanical bull you were telling me about, and it can all be your idea.” I gave the cycle a little pat, willing her to remember her little Friday-night pep talk.

“That is true,” she conceded, as graciously as she’d ever conceded anything. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is you found a man, got yourself a Weird shirt, and damn if you’re not sitting astride a great big vibrating—”

Vvvvvrrrrrrrooooovvvvmmmmm!

Sitting there, caught up in Leslie’s runaway monologue, visualizing it streaking toward its train wreck of a conclusion, I was at a loss. My reaction? A cringe with a twist. My hands had curled reflexively around the handlebars, jerking just enough to rev the engines in one big guttural growl, the mother of all reprimands.

Leslie’s mouth rounded to an “o” and popped shut, a virtually unheard-of reaction.

Sean’s head whipped around in surprise, but then he dimpled me with a knowing grin. I was as shocked as anyone and becoming more and more fond of this bike.

Leslie recovered quickly, and rather than hold a grudge at such a garish interruption, seemed more than a little impressed with my sudden burst of spunk. “In case she doesn’t mention it herself ...” Leslie shot me a look. “Nic comes for karaoke every Friday night. She brings the cupcakes. Get her to invite you along, and we’ll see if you can keep up. And if you can get Nic to sing, I’ll know you’re a god. Wear the kilt.”

I suddenly had an urge to ram her, but before I could act on it, she was sauntering back the way she’d come, giving me a fluttery finger wave and a devilish grin.

Sean watched her go but quickly turned back to me. Before he could comment—I didn’t even want to guess what he might have said—I blurted, “I’m ready.” I’d deal with Leslie’s impromptu invitation later.

I scooted back, giving Sean room to climb on in front, and suddenly outrageously shy, I wrapped my arms loosely, tentatively around Sean’s waist. I managed to make it to the end of the street with my relaxed grip, but once we’d slid into traffic, with cars whizzing by on either side and the pavement stretching in front of us, potholed and bumpy, I quickly traded it for the infinitely more comforting full-body clamp technique. With blustery-crisp wind on my cheeks, I shamelessly spooned him on the streets of the capital city. From chin to knee, every last inch of my body was pressed against the inches of his. I was jittery and shivery, and, surprise, surprise, a bit of a potty mouth. But the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind carried all those words away.

Just as I was getting used to it, we were slowing down, easing into the Central Market parking lot, and killing the engine. I’d done it! I’d trusted and survived. And it hadn’t been so bad. I refused to picture the roads we’d have to take on the next leg of the trip, instead reveling in this one triumphant, exhilarating moment. I felt a bit like I’d conquered the world—and deserved a celebratory cupcake.

We wove our way through the maze of Central Market, stocking up on standard picnic fare: a baguette, a bit of cheese, an eclectic selection from the olive and pickle bars, strawberries, and bottled water. It wasn’t until we were lugging the picnic supplies out into the sunlight in an environmentally conscious canvas bag that I realized the bike didn’t have one of those cool storage compartments or hipster baskets—it was pretty much “what you see is what you get” as far as I could tell. So if Sean was driving, and I was sprawled over the back of him like a bug on the windshield, where exactly did we plan to stash a baguette? Not to mention its accompaniments.