Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance, #2)

by Sara Raasch

After about thirty minutes of riding while holding myself angled away from Loch, straining all the muscles I abused today so I don’t bump into him, I put my hand flat on the seat to prop against it and give my torso a break. But my eyes are shut. And I don’t see his hand already on the cushion. I feel it now, though. The edge of his wrist against mine. My body goes even tenser. Concrete solidified. Pull away. It was an innocent mistake. Pull back. But a second passes. Two. And it rapidly barrels past the time when I could yank away and claim it’s an accident and now, now, I’m actively touching him, barely touching him, and the beat of blood in my injuries channels to pound, pound, pound over my heart. It’s an accident. He touched my knees earlier, and that meant nothing, so this, this means— His finger moves. Hooks with mine. Holy shit. The icy wind thrashes against my face and chaos ratchets to boiling in my head, it’s haunting me, that juxtaposition, cold to hot to cold— I hear his voice, the memory of it. Echoing. Echoing. I’m Irish, boyo. Talking shite is how we flirt. Holy. Fuck. Has he been flirting with me this whole time? And. Oh my god. Have I been flirting back? No. No way. Flirting is telling someone they look nice, or smiling at each other across a room, or anything that leaves a fuzzy feeling in my chest, not— Not heat so intense I don’t think there’s a part of me that isn’t blistered anymore. Not tension so potent it creates its own gravitational pull. That’s...