He rolls his eyes, but I swear I detect a bit of humor there this time. Especially when his cheek sinks in with the remnants of a smile. It’s the first hint of a smile I’ve received all night, and I’m powerless to look away.

Fuck, he really is beautiful.

Clearing my throat, I find my voice and hitch a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna . . .”

“Yeah.”

I’ve got a leg swung over my bike when he calls out my name. Helmet clutched in my hands, I look over.

“Park in the back from now on,” he says. “There’s room in the garage. Wouldn’t want Ivy pissing all over your bike.”

The fuck?

He laughs. “Dude, your face. The cat.”

“You named a stray cat after your cousin?”

He shrugs. “She pissed me off.”

I shake my head, grinning.

Feeling lighter than I have all night, I slide my helmet on. I flip the visor up and start up my bike. She purrs under my thighs, the sound echoing off the brick siding.

Turning my head, I give Waylon one last onceover, feeling safe in the confines of Kevlar and foam as I allow myself a final fill.

From the messy dark hair, to the tats climbing up his arm, to the ripped jeans, and the unlit cigarette now balancing between his lips—he’s got bad boy written all over him.

And yet, there’s also a softness to him. An innocence. A beauty, even. It feels as familiar to me as it is shocking. Mesmerizing. Dangerous.

Those inky lashes.

Those full lips.

Those dimpled cheeks you can’t help but want to sink your teeth in.

Fuck, those dimples.

But there’s nothing feminine about him as a whole. What with his broad shoulders, and toned biceps. His sculpted jawline, as smooth as it is sharp. That boyish jut of his thumb as he cups the end of his cigarette, sliding the lighter to life.

No. He’s most definitely all boy.

All man.

Most definitely not the scrawny, delicate kid I remember him to be.

And it’s that contradiction that I choose to hold responsible for turning me and the majority of the population I observed tonight into bumbling idiots.

Because Jesus Christ, those dimples.

Huffing a laugh to myself, I give a little shake of my head and rev my engine. Not even minutes into this so-called truce, and my dick’s already trying to fuck this...whatever it is up.

Friendship?

Doubtful.

But it’s better than nothing—better than what I expected after today—so I’ll take it.

Flipping the visor down, I give him a two-finger salute, and go on my way without a backward look.

I might not have all the answers, but I have something of a second chance, and that’s more than I ever expected with him. More than I even allowed myself to hope for.