“Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
The question slices through the ringing in my ears. I push myself up on my elbows, my body screaming in protest. Adrenaline washes away the initial shock and leaves pure, unadulterated fury in its wake.
I rip off my helmet and surge upright; the pain in my left side becomes fuel.
“No, I’m not okay,” I spit. “What are you doing in the middle of the street?”
I get my first proper look at her—dark hair pinned up in an elaborate arrangement that’s half-collapsed, makeup smeared, wedding dress dirty and torn. Her expressive brown eyes are widened, and her full lips are bluish-purple. I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or a style choice. She looks like a ghost. Or a corpse bride. An angry one.
Her gaze blazes with a rage that mirrors mine.
“I stumbled off the curb,” she snaps back. “And this is a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. You were speeding way past that. You’re reckless.”
“I’m reckless? I’m not the one taking a break in the middle of the damn road.” I take a step toward her, and she falls backward on her ass. I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you drunk?”
“Gosh, I wish. No, I’m perfectly sober, thank you,” she says, lifting herself up. She hugs herself as a shiver runs through her body. The dress is ridiculous—strapless, leaving her shoulders bare to the icy wind and slow-dripping rain.
I’m about to ask if she needs help. A deep, inconvenient part of me feels sorry for her despite my injured leg and the warm wetness that’s trickling down my shin. Blood is soaking through what’s left of the suit pants. But she speaks again before I can offer.
“Are you drunk? At least my poor decisions don’t involve potential manslaughter.”
“Well, congratulations,” I taunt.
“To you, too.”
“For what?”
“You almost killed me, but your midlife crisis is still on track.” She gestures at the bike.
My jaw clenches. “Midlife crisis? I’m thirty. And I’m the one bleeding all over Main Street while you don’t have a single scratch on you.”
“I wasn’t the one driving a million miles per hour in a busy city center.”
I look around at the ghost town that is Main Street and want to laugh. A gust of wind blows inland from the lake. She shivers again as goosebumps pepper her arms.
My anger cools a few degrees, replaced by confusion.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask. “Wearing a strapless dress with a storm coming.”
Her face closes like a fist. “It’s none of your business. Leave me alone.”
“Fine.” If she wants to freeze to death, that’s her prerogative. “I’m late, anyway. I don’t have time to waste on crazy ladies in bridal cosplay.”
I turn my back on her, ignoring the protest from my bruised, scraped limb. My hands are shaking as I pick up my helmet. I inspect it for cracks, find none, and shove it back on my head.
Lifting the Ducati is agony. My knee screams as I put weight on it, but I get the bike upright. The bodywork is a disaster, scratched to hell, but the engine responds on the first try with a defiant roar.
I swing my good leg over, grit my teeth, and don’t look back as I ride away, leaving her a solitary figure in white, standing alone in the middle of the street.
The Rockwood Resort blazes into view a short stretch of road ahead. Valets in crisp uniforms rush forward as I pull the bike to a stop near their booth. Their standard-issue smiles dissolve into masks of confusion and concern when they register my appearance. The shredded pants, the blood running down my shin and soaking into my sock.
“Mr. Rockwood, are you…” one of them starts.
“I’m fine.” I wave them off, swing my leg over the saddle, and nearly collapse as my left knee refuses to hold my weight. “Hide this somewhere.”
I hand them the bike, helmet, and gloves and limp past them up the steps, through the grand glass doors, and into the lobby—no time for detours at a side entrance.
I head straight for the concierge desk. Adam looks up from his computer, his professional calm in place until he gets a look at me. His eyebrows climb toward his styled hairline.