Their obscene wealth intimidates me.
Not the people.
The driver opens my uncle’s door first before attending to mine. James doesn’t make any move to exit. He looks contemplative. “I hope you’ll be happy here, Faye. Truly, I do.”
“Thank you. Me, too.” I hop out of the car as the driver retrieves my suitcase from the boot.
A splash of color in the corner of the garage captures my attention. Three racing motorbikes rest on an elevated platform. One is orange and blue and there is a multitude of brand logos on the side. The other two bikes are no less impressive. One is painted in a dark shade of green, the other bright yellow. A myriad of similar stickers decorates the side panels. I’m inexplicably drawn to them, and my feet move of their own accord.
Reaching out, I run the tip of my finger along the bodywork and up and down the wheels, my fingers dipping into the grooves in the tires. I can almost feel the enhanced adrenaline in the air. Motorbikes have always excited me, and the pure rush I’m getting is sending tingles of anticipation ricocheting all over my body.
I’m so entranced that I barely register the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Get your hands off my bike.” The deep male cadence verges on a predatory growl. The possessive quality to his voice isn’t lost on me either.
Giant goose bumps sprout on my arms, but I smother my fear and lift my head up in a confident manner. A red flush creeps up my chest and over my neck as a devastatingly good-looking boy reaches my side.
I’m tall—for a girl—and I’m usually pretty much on the level with most guys, but the top of my head barely reaches this dude’s chin, so he’s got to be at least six-two to my five-nine.
His body exudes warmth like a weapon. It crashes into me, almost knocking me off my feet. Slowly, my eyes travel up his body, taking in every ripped, lean, taut inch of him. He’s wearing dark navy jeans and a plain white shirt that’s molded to his perfectly chiseled abs like it’s painted on. I gulp.
They sure don’t grow them like this in Ireland.
My eyes continue their journey, up beyond the inviting, exposed strip of skin at the top of his shirt, and note voluptuous lips that are pinched tight, the light layer of dark stubble on his sculpted chin and cheeks, and the tan, smooth lines of his handsome face. I brace myself, rocking back on my heels, as I stare into stunning pale blue eyes. Framed by a thick layer of inky-black lashes most girls would kill for, his eyes are vast pools that I could easily drown in.
This guy is seriously good-looking, and he knows it, too. Crossing his arms over his chest, he pins me with a venomous look, and I shrink back from the dangerous vibes he’s emitting.
“Are you done drooling yet?”
©Siobhan Davis 2016