A log in the bonfire falls,
and the entire fire crackles and pops and sizzles. A wave of thick smoke
envelops me for just a moment with the shifting of the breeze. I begin to cough
and wave the air with my hands to clear a clean patch to breathe.
“Looks like you’ve picked a
dangerous spot,” a voice says. I turn, expecting Jared. But it’s not Jared.
It’s some guy I don’t know.
Wow, yet another Casanova.
Do I have “please talk to me” stamped on my forehead? What’s going on tonight?
I don’t reply to his pick-up
line. I mean it’s pretty lame.
“Is this seat taken?” he
asks, motioning to the sand next to me.
I shrug.
His voice seems really
familiar to me. But I can’t place it.
He looks to the fire for a
moment, and the flames dance across his face. Wow, he has the most alluring
collection of features I’ve ever seen. Well, in person, anyway. I’ve seen movie
stars and rock stars rival this guy, but I’ve never seen such perfection up
close. He truly is a work of art. His hair is dark. His cheekbones are high.
His nose is sculpted. His lips are . . . wow.
“I’m Dean,” he says,
extending his hand.
I put my hand in his and
immediately feel a current of electricity jolt through my body. I jerk my hand
away.
“I’m Shaynee,” I say,
sounding more confident than I feel. “I recently learned I’m supposed to say my
name when someone says theirs. So, there, I did it. I said my name. It’s
Shaynee.” Oh God, I’m rambling.
He laughs a masculine,
guttural laugh.
I freeze. I know that laugh.
Oh my God. I look down at his
clothes. Jeans. Combat boots. He’s not wearing the leather jacket, but . . .
Another plume of smoke from
the bonfire hits and envelops us. Again, I cough ferociously. But he isn’t
coughing at all.
When the smoke clears, he lets
out his breath. “You’re a bonfire rookie, Shaynee.”
When he says my name, my
stomach flips over and that electricity from our handshake bounces throughout
my body.
He turns to look at me,
flashing a wicked grin, and I finally see those startling blue eyes in the
flickering light confirming what I already know. Motorcycle Boy.
“When you see smoke coming,”
he says, “you gotta hold your breath ‘til it passes.”
“Or, hey,” I say, “here’s an
idea—we could just move back a bit.”
“What, and sacrifice
warmth?” He grins.
“It is a bit of a Sophie’s Choice, isn’t it?”
Dean laughs like he actually
understands my movie reference.
Gah, is it super-duper hot
out here tonight? Am I sitting way too close to the fire? Is my hair burning?
“Actually, holding my breath is my superpower,” I blurt. “I can hold my breath
all day long.” God, I sound like such a dork.
“Well, that’s a handy
superpower. You could totally team up with Aquaman and fight underwater crime
and stuff.” He shoots me a crooked smile. “And make some really beautiful
tadpoles.”
I can’t take it anymore. I
have to call a spade a spade. “You’re the guy on the motorcycle.” It’s a
statement, not a question. “Motorcycle Boy.”
“Yes, I am. And you’re the
girl with the walkie-talkie. Walkie-Talkie Girl.” He laughs.
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