¡Por Dios! He rode a motorcycle. Okay, yeah, he’d said bike when he’d talked to me, but it took me until I was actually looking at it to really process the words. Asher Hart drove a motorcycle.
In that second, he got, like, five times hotter.
Trying to cool my jets, I blew out a breath and pulled up next to him, rolling down my window. “Still won’t start?” I asked.
He pushed upright away from the bike and reached for the door handle of my car. “No.” After he slid inside, he slumped low and moodily into the passenger seat. “I discovered the problem. The fuel line was cut.”
I blinked and stared at him. “Cut? You mean, like, cut-cut?”
He arched an eyebrow, letting me know there was no other kind of cut.
My mouth fell open. “Holy s**t. Who would...” Then it hit me. “f**k. Do you think it
