|
Turning into the narrow dirt drive, Amy parked the Mustang and turned off the music, the noise suddenly out of place amid the nature around her. She emerged from the car, leaving behind her bag with an extra change of clothes in the backseat.
The cabin was huge, standing against an idyllic view of the mountain and forest around it. The air was damp, musky, infused with the scent of pine and earth. She made her way closer to the place, noting a half-constructed attachment to the cabin. Her ears perked up as she heard metal clang against metal. With a frisson of anticipation creeping up her spine, Amy breathed deeply and sped up her pace.
She saw Nick before he could see her. Clad only in torn and dirty jeans, his muscular torso gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat. His back to her, he knelt in front of his motorcycle, carefully turning his wrench, adjusting something. He looked so beautiful, peaceful, so immersed in his task, that Amy felt strange intruding on the moment.
Nick suddenly froze, as though he’d detected her presence, and dropped the wrench onto the ground, the noise startling her. He got up slowly, turned his head, and saw her. Amy’s stomach knotted itself painfully when she saw the unruly look in his eyes, his cheek smudged with black grease. They stood like that for a moment in silence, like a Mexican standoff, as though daring the other to speak first.
“I wanted to see you,” Amy said, responding to his unasked question, feeling naked in her shorts and tank top.
Nick said nothing. Amy began to panic inwardly. Was she crazy? Did he not want to see her? Maybe she shouldn’t have come…
“Thirsty?” Nick asked, moving toward the icebox in the corner and extracting two cold bottles of water. He approached her, handing her one. Amy watched as he opened the bottle and poured a third of it over his head, the water coursing over his broad shoulders and down his chest. She tried not to choke as she swigged from her own bottle. She became conscious of the wet heat in the air around them, between them, and inside her shorts.
“So this is your bike,” Amy said, as though it wasn’t already a blatant fact, gesturing to his motorcycle. It was a real Harley Davidson, black, with shining chrome, a big hunk of muscular metal… stunning.
Nick nodded. “Got her last year. Just fixing up a few things to get her to ride more smoothly.” He took a few long swallows of the cold water, eyeing her warily. “Amy… you really shouldn’t be here,” he said roughly.
|
