I stare at him, unconvinced.

“Hey, I’m good at this stuff, I swear.” He makes the Boy Scout salute.

I sure hope he is, with what I’m paying him. And if it turns out he sucks, I hope Mom and Julia will be too distracted by how good he looks to notice.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m going to trust you on this. Oh, one last detail: What was the ad for?”

“Deodorant,” Diego says without hesitation.

“Deodorant?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with it?”

“It isn’t very romantic.”

“We can say perfume or chocolate if you prefer, but deodorant makes it sound less staged, more real.”

He has a point. “Deodorant it is.”

An email flashes on my phone screen, and I get a peek of the time as well. “Wow, it’s super late. Don’t you have to be at the mall in like twenty minutes?”

He stares at his watch. “You’re right.”

We both get up, don our jackets, and exit the coffee shop in a hurry. It doesn’t take long to be back at my building, where we stop outside to say goodbye.

“The subway is that way,” I say. “I hope I haven’t made you too late?”

“Nah, don’t worry,” Diego says, “it’s only a ten-minute ride on the bike.” He unlocks the saddle to take out his helmet. Then, as if on second thought, he adds, “Hey, you want a ride? Your office is on the way.”

“No, no, you’re already late, I don’t want to make it worse.”

“And you won’t; we have all the time we need.”

“I don’t have a helmet,” I protest.

“And I always carry a spare one.” He opens a sort of detachable trunk and offers me a black helmet matching his.

“Err…”

When he sees me still hesitating, he asks, “You’re not afraid of bikes, are you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I’ve never been on one.”

“Come on.” Diego smiles encouragingly. “No girlfriend of mine, fake or otherwise, could skip a ride on my bike.”

I quickly censor all the inappropriate scenarios my degenerate brain conjured up at the “take a ride on my bike” comment, and bravely nod, taking the helmet.

Eight

Sleigh Ride

The moment I climb on the bike behind Diego, I know I’ve made a mistake. This black monster is way too wobbly and unstable for my tastes.

At first, I try to keep my palms respectfully flat against Diego’s sides while he backs the bike up. But the second he twists the accelerator, I wrap my arms around his waist as tightly as I can, my gloved fingers gripping his leather jacket for dear life. Especially when the bike stumbles off the curb with a roar of the engine, tires skidding on the road. The rumble is deafening; it vibrates up my legs to reach deep into my guts. I close my eyes, glue my head—helmet and all—to his broad back, and hope this ride will really only take ten minutes.

Diego works the clutches, making the bike gather speed, and I can’t help but grip tighter as a little scream escapes my lips. Diego’s chest starts to shake under my arms, and I have a strong suspicion he’s laughing at me and my fear.