Motorbikes are dangerous. And if Daddy was here, he would tell me the number of people who die from bike accidents yearly.
We zoom past a car and I clamp my eyes shut. This is Ben, he is a great biker. I can trust him. We won’t get into an accident. I keep repeating these phrases as the bike glides down the road, passing between cars.
My arms are around Ben’s waist in a choke hold, reducing his air supply. I should adjust but it is the only position I am comfortable in. The bike slows to a stop by the roadside, I scowl as the cars we left behind zip past us. Ben pries my hands off his waist, I push my visor up without meeting his gaze.
What did I do?
With his help, I get down and he takes my hands in his to warm them. I flush at the intensity in his gaze.
“Relax.” Easy for him to
