and like I usually did in his presence, it felt as though my heart was expanding, growing and growing until there was no room in my chest for anything other than him.
“Don’t be so impatient,” he chided, making me scoff.
“Me? Impatient? You’re the impatient one.” Well, he kind of was. Somehow, he was the most patiently impatient person I’d ever known.
He snorted, but I found myself being hauled into his side and I sighed when his lips brushed over my cheek. Adam was always a gentleman with me. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved by that or concerned.
He wasn’t from my culture. He didn’t know that the little we’d done thus far was considered a liberty to my people. I shouldn’t be touching him, shouldn’t let him hug me or hold me, and I shouldn’t spend so much time with him. That I did all three was the equivalent of my being a fallen woman to my people. It didn’t matter that he was my jílo, no one cared about that.
They cared about propriety, and where women my age were concerned, they were concerned about virginity.
Adam looked at me with a certain heat in his eyes that let me know he wanted me, and the feeling was mutual, but he never acted on it. And, in my defense, I didn’t know how to.
“Okay, open your eyes,” he muttered, breaking into my thoughts just as fire licked at my heels when he squeezed me again, brushing his lips over my temple this time, before declaring, “Happy birthday!”
I let my eyes drift open, and for a second, I could only gape at what was evidently my gift.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice wary when I didn’t say all that much.
I didn’t know what to say.
So, I went with the predictable response. “Adam, my God, it’s too much,” I rasped, eying the bike. It was pure vintage, and I loved it. Absolutely loved it. “How did you even get it here?” I knew my face was made up of nothing more than my smile. That was how big it was.
His grin was sheepish, but his eyes sparkled with glee, because he knew I was being honest and his pleasure in my joy was evident. That was something I loved about him. Where I was concerned, he was selfless and so generous, I wasn’t even sure if I deserved him.
I had nothing to give, but he did, and he gave me something every day. He fed me and paid for my phone. I felt so bad sometimes, but if I argued, he’d tell me that he was the selfish one because he wanted to make sure I was okay—how was I supposed to keep on arguing with that? How was that being selfish?
He was such a gentleman. In both meanings of the word.
“I had Linden, our driver, bring it.” Then, his eyes darkened as he muttered, “Anyway, it’s not too much. I saw it and thought of you.”
“Where though?” Knowing where he lived, and that his mom was a senator, I didn’t think he had the kind of neighborhood where they’d be holding yard sales every weekend.
He shrugged. “I admit to hunting through some thrift stores for it. They’re kinda hard to find, but I just knew you’d get a kick out of it.”
And he was right.
Totally dead on.
The Raleigh Chopper gleamed. The relatively small wheels in contrast to the frame were so black, they shone, and the chrome bodywork glittered in the sunlight. The high handlebars had some flags on them that flickered in the light breeze, and the seat, a bright shiny blue, had the little cushioned ‘flick’ to support the back.
“You found this in a thrift store?” I queried disbelievingly, then I shot him a wary look—he already spent too much on me.
He shook his head, but was laughing as he did so. “You’re so distrusting,” he chided, sliding his arm over my shoulders now. “I got it for like fifty dollars at the thrift store. It was a wreck. Want to see?”
“Sure,” I told him, amused by the eager question. He totally wanted me to see, and when I did, I just gaped harder at it.
The bike had been a wreck. Charging fifty dollars for it was outrageous.
The bodywork was one big brown blob of rust, the seat was beyond cracked and with more tears in it than anything else, and the handlebars had been bent out of shape.