e pull up outside of Mojack's, park, and head inside to search for a booth. Despite nearing midnight, the place is packed, filled to the brim with scary looking bikers, but we manage to find a table in the corner.

Tyler asks what I'd like to drink before heading to the bar, where he strikes up a conversation with the pretty bartender. The pair look flirty as if they know one another from somewhere, and I feel the tiniest pang in my chest. Just how many girls has this boy been with?

I force myself to look away, but my gaze snaps back to him in instant, taking him in. He looks ridiculously good under the dimly lit sconce lamps, his skin all golden and dewy. When he leans against the counter, his tanned forearms bulge beneath the hem of his sleeves, making them twice the size.

Heat warms my cheeks when she reaches out and squeezes his arm. They're practically having sex in the middle of the bar, and no one seems to have noticed. I'm quiet as he grabs our drinks and starts to head over, setting them on the table. He takes a seat opposite and hands me my drink, letting his fingers brush mine.

Casually, I say, "She seems nice. How do you know each other?"

His eyes flit to mine, the picture of innocence. "Old friends."

"You seem to have a lot of old friends. That 'cause you can't make new ones?"

He slowly leans forward until his face is near mine, his dark eyes intense. I can suddenly smell the clean scent of his shirt, feel the warmth emanating off his skin. "Not can't," he says. "I've just been distracted lately."

My body betrays me. Heat spreads through it, starting at the tip of toes and traveling upward, settling in a place it definitely shouldn't be. He's distracted by the training, by the need to win his stupid bet, not by me. "From what Alex tells me, it's easily done."

"Didn't we establish she hates me? Not exactly a reliable source."

"Are you saying you haven't slept with half of her friends?"

He neither confirms nor denies this, just leans back again, studying me intently. "What about you? Any old friends back home?"

It's not a subject we've really broached before. Most of our conversations have been about racing, which means we're rapidly heading into unchartered territory, something I'm not sure I can handle.

"No," I say curtly. While I'm not exactly Mother Teresa when it comes to men – I've been on dates and had some kisses her and there – I still lack the experience of someone like Kianna, who has boys lining up down the block. My free time has always just been spent at the track, which the guys I dated would accept for a while before eventually taking their exit.

"Any particular reason?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm planning on joining a convent."

He grins. "Now that would be a shame," he says, getting to his feet. "Come on, let's play some pool."

He takes my hand without awaiting a response, and I hate how natural it feels. It's not one of those soft, half-hearted grips, either. It's strong and warm, bringing with it this feeling that I'm somehow in safe hands – the last thing I should be feeling.

He leads me over to a now vacant pool table, picking up a cue before handing it over and grabbing his own. "Feel like making a bet?" he asks.

"What is it with you and bets?"

He grins an adorable grin, revealing those pearly white teeth. "What's the point of winning if there's no reward after?"

"The reward is knowing that you're the best," I say.

"I already know that."

I shake my head, but I can't fight the smile on my lips. "You know what they say about men with big egos, don't you?"

"What do they say?" The innocent look on his face doesn't fool me. He knows full well.

"That they're overcompensating for something."

His laugh is abrupt, like he hadn't been expecting me to say it. "Believe me," he says, "you don't have to worry about that. So, what are the stakes?"

I'm still reeling from his You don't have to worry about that comment. Why would he think I'd be worried unless he thought I was planning on sleeping with him?

"Earth to Roxy." He waves a hand in front of my face. "You're not already chickening out, are you?"

Throat tight, I turn to face him. "If I win, you have to convince the others to let me race on the evening track."

He pauses, then runs a hand along his jaw. I can tell that a part of him wants to say no, but after a second or two, he nods. "And if I win?"

"What do you want?"

He pretends to think as he sets up the table. I'm waiting impatiently, dusting the tip of my cue with the chalk, when he finally looks over. "A kiss."

"A kiss," I repeat, because I'm not sure I've heard right. When he nods, I splutter, "No way."

He breaks into a boyish grin. It's clear this bet is less about the kiss and more about eliciting a reaction from me. "You don't sound too confident in your pool abilities, Sirenita."

"I am confident," I say, "I just think it's a stupid bet."

"If you're planning on winning, why does it matter?"

Eyes narrowed, I say, "You're right, I am planning on winning." Luckily for me, it wasn't just racing my dad liked to teach. "I'm breaking."

Tyler's still grinning as I lean across the table, trying to position myself. "Tonight just might be the night that ego of yours gets you into trouble," he says.

I block him out, which is hard to do when he's standing so close, and break. Multiple balls shoot in every direction, with several landing in the pockets. Grinning I say, "What were you saying?"

He looks impressed as he maneuvers around the table for his shot. He leans forward, his t-shirt slightly rising as he positions his cue, revealing a strip of taut skin. When he shoots, several balls land in the pockets.

From here on out, we both mean business. Every time I pocket a ball, he pockets one too, a perfectly matched opponent. I huff and spend several minutes trying out different angles while he stands back and watches, the tiniest smile on his face.

My efforts are for nothing when I don't pocket a single ball. Tyler gives me a look as if to say, Better luck next time, and pockets another ball. Turning, he says, "Nervous yet?"

I'm nervous as hell, but I don't tell him this. "Hardly." It's a bluff that I hope will work in my favor, but several shots later, it's clear he's seconds from winning. I mumble something about best of three, and he laughs and puts down his cue.

"Come on," he says, his eyes bright with laughter, "let's get you home."

I glance at the clock and realize it's late. He takes my hand, leading me back into the dark parking lot, where we hurry toward his bike. He's reaching for the helmet when my hand shoots out, causing him to freeze.

"You won, remember? Aren't you going to collect?"

His eyes turn hooded. He leans in closer, and I think he's about to really kiss me this time, but he positions his mouth near my ear. Softly, he says, "Not today, Sirenita."

My heart feels fluttery, his voice is intoxicating. "When then?"

Silence, and then, "When you want it as much as I do."

For the whole ride home, I can't think straight. I just hold onto him tightly, replaying his words on a loop in my head, but I still can't make sense of them. We get to my street, and I rip off my helmet and shove it at him before hurrying over to my house.

This is not good.

❤️