Robyn stopped next to a pink one with white and silver trim, turning to smile again at Chris who was standing a few feet behind her, watching her peruse the evidence of his youthful stupidity.
“This looks like a woman chose it,” she said.
“Probably,” Chris shrugged. “I can’t remember where most of them came from.”
“I’d love to ride this one.”
“You know how to ride?”
Robyn stroked the white leather seat. “No. But I wish I did. Then I would take the fastest bike I could find, go out to the desert somewhere and just open it up.”
“You would, huh?”
Robyn looked at him, noting the skepticism in his tone. “Yeah, I would.”
He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans that were baggy and slung low on his hip, though not below them any longer. He seemed to have stopped doing that in the last couple of years, thank goodness. In fact, he seemed more . . . adult now than Robyn remembered, more like a man than the man-child she was accustomed to thinking of him as.
He was mean-sexy. That’s how Robyn would describe him if someone asked. A hard, but magnetic man. Maybe six-one or so, Chris was fit in the manner of a man who worked out for strength, rather than bulk. At a distance he might appear almost slender, but up close, like they were now, Robyn could see the definition in his chest and arms and the trimness of his waist. He was built like a sprinter, unobtrusively strong and lean, his physical power evident only if you paid close attention.
“Maybe I’ll take you out sometime. For a ride.”
“You could,” Robyn said. “But what would be better would be if I could ride on my own.” She raised her eyebrows at him and grinned, knowing it was a ridiculous suggestion.
“You’d have to get lessons first,” Chris pointed out.
“Yeah,” Robyn sighed. “There is that.”
She removed her hand from the pink motorcycle and moved on, walking among the others, taking in the names—some she recognized like Ducati, Harley Davidson, and BMW, and others unfamiliar: Ecosse, and Macchia Nera. They were amazing to look at, but one day, she promised herself, one day . . .
“So you want to go fast?” Chris asked.
“I would love to go fast.”
Robyn knelt next to a sleek black Yamaha, its finish so shiny it looked like a dark liquid, like crude oil. If she touched it, her fingerprints would undoubtedly be left behind, but she couldn’t help herself and reached out anyway, her hand hesitating before making contact. Before she could decide whether or not to actually go through with it, Chris had crouched next to her and with a hand over hers, placed it directly atop the cool metal surface. His fingers were long and tapered, his nails neatly trimmed and short. Robyn felt calluses lightly scraping the back of her hand.
“I’m not sure you could handle how fast I might go.”