Luke:
Eight o’clock sharp, and a low rumble pulls into my driveway, a throaty purr that crawls straight down my spine. Her bike.
The headlight dies as I peak out the blinds just in time to see Alex swinging off like a shadow uncoiling, helmet tucked under her arm. Tight black jeans, cropped leather jacket, hair a dark, wild halo. Trouble wrapped in moonlight.
I step out and lean against the porch rail, pretending calm even as every nerve wakes up. “Right on time,” I say.
“Of course.” Her eyes slide over me, slow, assessing. I catch the flicker when she lands on the black button-down and dark jeans I bothered to dig out. The corner of her mouth kicks up, almost a smile, almost a dare.
“You clean up nice,” she murmurs. “Didn’t think the badge owned anything without starch.”
“Don’t get
