“This one is yours,” I say as I pat the black and pink dirt bike. “In case that wasn’t obvious.” Some of that fear abates as she looks it over. “This is one of your bikes? I can’t believe Knox Holland owns something with pink on it.” “I don’t. You do.” She turns to face me, brows furrowing. “I bought it for you,” I say, then shift uncomfortably because she looks stunned.
