I'm hiding under the bar top.
I've been pretending to search for something that fell for the last thirty seconds, really committing to the act by using the flashlight we keep on the utility shelf right under the register. There's not much down here, other than a few stray straw wrappers and some lost pennies, but really, I just need a second to sit down and breathe before I pass out.
Since the first pre-season basketball game started two hours ago, the diner has been overrun by rowdy, rude, and incredibly drunk college students. It's been one big blur of chicken wings, fries, milkshakes, and bacon burgers. And since I haven't eaten since my blueberry smoothie this morning, my stomach is screaming at me, begging me to unwrap the granola bar in my purse and take a bite. I don't have that kind of time, though. This little search party was just so I could catch my breath without looking like I was slacking, so when I finally slow it down enough to get a full breath of air, I grab a forgotten pen sitting by the office supply shelf and stand back up.
Nancy pops her head out from the kitchen and eyes me immediately, her shoulders relaxing a little as she waves me over. I adjust the apron tied around my waist as I head over, making sure the straws and pens are still tucked securely in the pockets. When she turns back to me, she holds out a tray stacked haphazardly with teetering plates, and I don't have the chance to try to rearrange them into sturdier positions before she hands it off to me and nods toward the far end of the diner.
"Table thirty-two. All bacon burgers, no mods." She scans the tray one final time before turning around, and I don't hesitate to hurry out into the crowd because, based on her rough exhale, she's about to explode on the cooks for their slow ticket times, and I don't want to be caught in that crossfire. Nancy is the sweetest woman I've ever met, but she's also terrifying when she's stressed.
Tightening my grip on the tray, I crouch down a little as I weave through the drunken crowd. An elbow comes flying straight toward my face as someone turns — so fast I'm sure I would have been knocked on my butt — but by some stroke of luck, it just barely grazes me. I inhale quickly as the rough fabric of his jacket just barely scrapes against my cheek. He doesn't even realize he almost knocked me out, and I look around wide-eyed, searching for a clear path to safety from the crowd. Finding a small opening toward the booths, I hurry out quickly, sidestepping a guy laying on the floor, apparently too drunk to stand any longer. He has a USW fan jersey on, and when he rolls over to try to stand up, I smile at the name and number printed boldly on the back — McConnell 23.
Of course. It's fitting that Luke's fans would party just as hard as he does.
Turning back toward the booths, I find table thirty-two quickly, but all four guys sitting in the booth keep their eyes on the TV across the room as I stop in front of their table. They all have the same order with no modifications, so I don't bother pulling their attention as I place each plate down in front of them. I'm about to grab their empty cups of water for refills when the entire diner goes silent.
It's chilling — the silence before the explosion; the almost peaceful moment before everything around you is destroyed. Working game day shifts, I know it all too well. When I look over my shoulder, I catch the exact moment Micah jumps up and blocks a shot, hitting it so hard it's sent flying down the court. Luke is the first one to break away from the rest, chasing after the ball, and when he grabs it, never breaking his stride as he bolts down the court, the entire diner stops breathing as we watch him. He doesn't spare a look at the defenders sprinting to catch up to him as he stops at the three-point line and releases the ball just as the loud buzzer echoes through the speakers. When the ball falls into the basket without touching the rim, the crowd in the arena erupts.
The screams are first, an ear-shattering echo that rattles through the diner, but then the explosion of food comes next, flying into the air like confetti. Half-eaten burgers, fries, salads, even a milkshake is thrown up in celebration, and the air deflates in my lungs as I watch it all come crashing down, splattering all over the tables, booths, and floor.
"Afterparty at Sigma — bring your own bottle!" A voice echoes above the rest of the cacophony.
It only takes a second for that to register amongst the drunken crowd before all hell breaks loose and each table empties, racing out into the parking lot. I'm shoved into a booth as a group of girls squeezes through the crowd, and when the bell on the door chimes as it finally slams shut, I sit up on the seat and glance around. Lacie's staring wide-eyed at me from behind the counter, Kelsie and Maria are watching from the safety of the booth in the very back, and Nancy is peeking out from the kitchen. The diner is silent, apart from the reporters starting their post-game reports, and when the kitchen door creaks before slamming shut, Nancy surveys the restaurant, her lips pursing as she takes in the mess.
"Alright, ladies, let's get going — business as usual, even with the mess. Everyone except the closer is still getting cut at nine, so let's help Lacie out as much as we can before that. Josie, try to get these front booths; Maria and Kelsie can take the back two sections. Lace — just worry about the bar top and...whatever that is." She motions toward the green liquid dripping from the bar top. It looks like someone mixed the leftovers of every milkshake on the menu into one cup and shook it up. My nose wrinkles at the chunks of who knows what mixed into the mess.
Nancy claps her hands and walks back into the kitchen, likely to help them get cleaned up so she can cut the extra cooks as soon as possible. Popping up from the booth, I collect everything I'll need from the supplies stocked under the bar top — a handful of clean hand towels, two sanitizing spray bottles, a dish caddy, and one of the industrial-sized brooms and dustpans. It takes two trips since the broom is taller than I am, but now that I'm here, smack dab in the middle of the burger and fry graveyard, I start sweeping.
There's a murmur of voices from the other end of the diner, probably Maria and Kelsie deciding who has to do what, but it's nearly drowned out by the reporter's voices still echoing through the restaurant. I'm tempted to ask Lacie to turn it off so we can listen to music to make this experience a little less soul-crushing, but when the reporter says Micah's name, I freeze mid-sweep.
"That was a hell of a game. The USW Warriors were fighting for their lives out there against Oregon in the first pre-season game of the year. We had a suspicion that we'd see some kinks and bumps in the road for USW after Tristan Beck graduated, but I've got to say, I wasn't expecting to see them struggle like that."
The reporter on the other end of the table nods emphatically. "Turn over after turn over, open shots not taken, and the sheer discombobulation of this team. Had I not known that was USW playing out there tonight, I wouldn't have believed it. Micah Costa was clearly trying to keep his ship from sinking, stepping up and playing at a level we've never seen from him before, commanding that court even when he didn't have the ball in his hands. But you can't save a sinking ship on your own, and if Luke McConnell — who was limping so severely by halftime Coach Kennley had to pull him out of the game — hadn't come back in for the last five minutes, USW would have been done for. Costa and McConnell are the heart of this team this season. They were surrounded by crimson jerseys, but they were the only two standing on that court tonight if you ask me. The only two who looked like they were prepared to be out there. Let's just hope Coach Kennley can whip the rest of that team into shape, so they don't have to do it alone for the rest of the season. They're a chaotic duo — dangerous when they're on the court together, like fire and gasoline, but how long can they carry their team before they burn out?"
The screen cuts to a shot of the team walking into the arena. They're all dressed in suits and ties, and I can tell by the cotton candy skyline behind them that it must have been before the game started a few hours ago. The shot zooms in on Micah with his hands in his pockets and his head down. He looks more focused than I've ever seen him, but his shoulders are tense, and when he looks up as the reporters all scream his name, his gray eyes are distant, calm — determined. His jaw tightens as he passes by the cameras, but when Luke leans over and murmurs something with a wicked grin, his cheek twitches in a smirk.
The camera cuts to the three reporters sitting around a table, their attention fixed on the flat screen beside them. A highlight reel from the game is playing, flashing from shots of Luke shooting the kind of threes that have the reporters shaking their head in disbelief to a shot of Micah forcing his defender back, nearly knocking him over before he turns around and jumps up, dunking the ball with enough force to rattle the backboard.
When the last play of the game flashes on the screen, one of the reporters lets out a low whistle as Luke stops on the three-point line and releases the ball just as the buzzer rings out. When the ball finds the net perfectly, he shakes his sweat matted hair out of his eyes as he turns toward the erupting crowd, reaching back for an invisible arrow to sheath it in its bow before aiming it up into the crowd and releasing it. I smile at the dramatic celebration — very Luke.
"I've said it before, and I'll say it again — Luke McConnell is the key player on this team. He's the offensive leader now. He's the game maker. We saw him command the court last year, but that was with Tristan Beck leading the way; this year, it's on him. It's on him to drop those points and keep that tempo high. All while he's still healing from that killer knee injury in last year's final game. Once he is fully healed, I think we're going to see a whole new side to Luke McConnell. He's got a lot to prove now, and based on what we saw here tonight —" He nods toward the replay of Luke shooting a perfect three while two defenders try to push him back. "I'd say he's dead set on showing us all that he can do it. He's not interested in maintaining Tristan Beck's dynasty — he's planning on making it his own."
"Agreed. But I'd argue that Costa might be the most influential player on that court this season, especially with McConnell injured. And based on what we saw tonight, we might see a turning tide with Costa leading the team this year. I don't mean to doubt him before he's been given a chance to show us what he's got this season, but you can't deny that Tristan Beck was the foundation of that team for the past four years. Even his freshman year, that team was Beck's, captain or not. He built a dynasty at USW — a team that was impossible to beat. A team that upset Duke's notorious reign. But now he's gone, and he left the responsibility to lead that team to Costa. He's a hell of a defenseman, but is he a leader?"
My lips turn down at that, imagining the stoic line his lips would fall into if he heard this report. The emotionless mask he'd wear as he shrugs it off. He'd never admit it, but hearing something like that, hearing those reporters doubt him in every way imaginable...I know that would hurt.
Does he watch these post-game reports?
I'm lost in the highlight reel still playing on the split-screen when the kitchen door swings open and Nancy walks through, her arms full of three fresh-out-of-the-dishwasher racks of cups. They're still steaming from the dry cycle, but she doesn't seem fazed by the heat as she sets the racks down on the bar top and looks up, surveying the diner.
Looking back down to the pile of food I've swept, I bend down quickly, sweeping it all into the dustpan at my feet. The floor in my section is clear for the most part, and it'll be ready for Lacie when she comes through later to mop, but the tables are still a mess, and a pang of guilt hits hard because I know we're all about to be cut and Lace will be left to clean up my section if I don't hurry.
Reaching for the empty dish caddy, I hurry down the line of tables, stacking the dishes and wiping the tables and booths down with sanitizing spray as I go. I have three tables left when Nancy's voice echoes loudly through the diner, dismissing all the waitresses other than the closer.
I catch Maria and Kelsey's relieved smiles as they round the bar top to grab their purses, but I hang back, stacking the cups and plates and dropping as many sets of dirty silverware into the caddy as I can before reaching the final two. I would have had my entire section cleared if I wouldn't have been distracted, but I don't have time to finish clearing away the two tables before Nancy calls my name, clapping a few times to punctuate each word. "Josie, let's go."
Maria grabs my purse for me, and as Nancy ushers us out of the diner, I look over my shoulder and send an encouraging smile to Lacie, who watches us go. Closing shifts usually aren't that bad, but game days are a completely different story. Last year Nancy would let us stay to help close if we wanted an extra hour or two on the clock, but she's been a lot more strict about cutting us the second our shift ends this year and based on the anxiety that always seems to radiate from her whenever she's sitting in the back office looking at paperwork, I'm assuming Over Easy hasn't been doing as well financially since the new burger joint, Drizzle, opened up this summer. I haven't noticed a big difference on game days, but there has been a substantial drop in business on my other shifts.
The early October breeze sweeps through the nearly empty parking lot, pulling at the ribbon in my hair as I dig Halle's keys out of my purse. The cool air has a bite to it, colder than it's been so far this year, and I hop into the car quickly, sliding the key into the ignition as fast as I can before blasting the heat. A wave of goosebumps races across my chest as I click my seatbelt into place, but when I pull out onto the main road, I don't turn toward the street leading to my apartment; instead, I keep left, following the main road straight to campus. Keeping my eyes on the road, I reach over, blindly digging through my purse until I find the granola bar I've been drooling over since I started my shift.
The first bite of the raspberry bar makes me moan, and by the third bite, I'm pulling into the campus, easily bypassing the traffic since everyone else congesting the roads right now is trying to get off campus, not on. The streets are nearly deserted once I pull away from the main road leading toward the arena, and when I turn into the empty parking lot right outside of the art building, I park under a street light and lean back in the seat as I enjoy the last few bites of the raspberry granola.
Truthfully, I'm stalling.
I've never done this before, and after I lick the raspberry smear from my finger, I unbuckle myself and try not to think about how many campus rules I'm about to break as I grab my bag and slide out of the car. The headlights flash twice as I lock the Jeep and hurry across the courtyard, looking over my shoulder when I reach the ART I building. No one's here. Of course, no one should be here; it's nearly nine-thirty on a Friday night. I shouldn't be here, either, but I'm running out of time, and I don't have much of a choice here.
I've heard whispers since I was a freshman that upperclassmen sneak into the art studio after hours all the time to work on their projects. The professors all know about the break-ins, but they turn a blind eye to it because they know how demanding these projects can be, and it's nearly impossible to complete them within the open studio hours. I've always wondered about it, too scared to actually see for myself, but now that I only have six weeks before my portfolio is due, I'm desperate. I can't go to all of the open studio times since I have to work most evenings, but if I don't spend hours in the studio, I'll never finish my portfolio in time, and that's not an option.
Pulling open the building door, I slip inside, ignoring the new rush of goosebumps climbing up my arms at the chilly rush of AC. I pull my cardigan tighter around me as I step inside, the silence of the usually raucous lobby chilling me even more. The overhead lights are all off, and apart from the few dim lights in the display cases placed every few yards down the main hallway, the building is completely dark. I'm tempted to turn around and make a run for it, but I've already made it this far, and the main door being unlocked in the first place is evidence enough that this rumor might be true.
Hurrying down the hall, I try to keep to my tiptoes to muffle my footsteps. When I get to the studio door, I'm not surprised to find it locked. I pull on it a little harder, but aside from the rattle of the lock, it doesn't budge. How the hell do they usually break in?
Leaning down, I inspect the lock. Not that it helps; I know nothing about locks other than how to use a key, but since I doubt there's a spare lying around here anywhere, I'll have to get more creative. Peering through the glass window, I survey the empty room inside. This is the only entrance, and unless they're sneaking in through the windows, there has to be a way to get in.
I straighten back up, chewing on the inside of my lip as I stare at the lock. Reaching up, I slip a bobby pin from my hair, letting some of the shorter strands framing my face fall forward. Crouching down to eye level, I maneuver the bobby pin into the lock, eyes widening when it slides in without resistance. I jostle it around gently, hoping to feel my way toward something, but I'm going in blind, and I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for. Is it a button that needs to be pressed? Shouldn't I be turning it like a key? I lean in, trying to get a better look at where the bobby pin is inserted in the lock, and when I turn the pin, it catches on something, and my pulse picks up. A small pop sounds, and I pull out the pin and pull on the handle quickly, but the newly ignited hope extinguishes just as fast as it came when the handle doesn't budge, just as locked as it was when I got here.
"First time breaking in?"
The low chuckle nearly stops my heart as I shoot up, spinning around to find a guy leaning against the opposite wall, his brows raised and eyes practically dancing with amusement as he watches my face pale and my hands tuck behind my back as if that would somehow seem less incriminating.
"I'm not breaking in," I lie, looking over my shoulder at the lock. My bobby pin is still jammed into the little slot, practically winking in the dim light from the display case on the opposite wall.
"Well, yeah, not with a bobby pin." He snorts, pushing off the wall. I take a few steps back, keeping a safe distance from him as he pulls out my bobby pin and reaches up, brushing his fingers along the top of the door frame until he pulls a long, thin piece of metal from its hiding spot. Taking a step closer, I recognize it as one of the tools for ceramics — a pick.
He grins at my shocked expression as he crouches down to get a better look at the door handle. A white beanie covers his black hair, and when he cocks his head to get a better look at the lock, I catch the small sketching pencil sticking out from behind his ear, as if he stuck it there while drawing and decided to keep it there for safekeeping. The smudged charcoal on the heel of his hand is further proof of that theory. His eyes narrow a little as he slides the tool into the lock, gently nudging it forward, searching for whatever is it that unlocks this door.
His eyes flick over me, watching me watch him, and when his brows twitch up, and his lips pull back into a satisfied smile, a soft click echoes down the silent hallway. Standing up, he pushes open the door before putting the pick back into its hiding spot. He doesn't look back at me as he walks in, but he leaves the door wide open behind him in a silent invitation.
I look over my shoulder and survey the hall before following him in and closing the door softly behind me. He doesn't look over as he heads toward the back wall and flicks on the lights for the drying room, disappearing inside. It's nearly as big as the studio itself, but rather than a substantial open space, only broken up by the leather, paint-stained couches in the middle of the room and the line of countless easels lining the perimeter, the drying room has rows and rows of drying racks and shelves for students to store our projects while we're working on them.
The warm light spilling from the drying room illuminates the back of the studio, but I head away from the light toward the easels set up along the far wall. This is my favorite spot in the studio — right beside the floor-to-ceiling windows that span the entire wall. During the day, it's the best spot for natural light, but since the sun has long since set, I admire the cool-blue hue of the moonlight tinting the pale tiled floor.
It's overcast tonight, projecting shadows from the passing clouds onto the empty courtyard just outside. There's sidewalk chalk art decorating the courtyard between the Art buildings advertising upcoming art shows or even reminding us of project due dates, but tonight the cement is spotless, likely cleaned by the storm last night. Based on the wall of gray clouds above, I'd be willing to bet it'll be raining again before I leave.
I step back from the windows and drop my bag onto the stool beside my favorite easel. It's the perfect distance from the sink, easy enough to access while not too close to be disturbed by the constant stream of people washing their hands and brushes. And next to the windows, I can usually feel the warmth of the sun on my skin while I lose myself in the strokes and passes of my paintbrush.
My mom always says art should be created as close to nature as possible, not locked in a cold studio, but since we're required to log at least a hundred hours of studio time each year, being next to the windows is as close as I'm going to get to that. The potted plants stacked on the counters lining the windows could count as fauna, I suppose.
Turning back toward the drying room, I freeze when the guy steps out with two pieces held carefully in his arms. He drops off the first painting on an easel a few away from mine. It looks like the beginning stages of a city. The mapped-out buildings are sketched in with pencil and harder to make out from here, but the parts already filled in with paint are a dead giveaway — he's painting Pullman.
I smile at the miniature render of Over Easy already painted into the inner circle of town, but I'm pulled away from the intricate map laid out on his canvas when he places the second canvas on my easel. It's my current work in progress.
"Josie, right?" He asks, nodding toward my painting.
I have no idea how he knows my name, but I nod and smile. He backs up a step toward his workstation but then hesitates. When I look up at him, he looks a little amused.
"You don't know who I am, do you?"
When my face pales, he smiles and extends his hand. "I'm Ben. We were in the same figure drawing class last year. And 2D drawing. And we have art history together this semester, but it's cool." My eyes widen as I take his hand, and I feel like a complete jerk because, truthfully, I don't recognize him at all. "Don't worry. I have a very forgettable face. It happens all the time." He flashes a smile, holding my hand for a beat longer before stepping back and admiring my canvas. "I saw you working on this earlier this week. Is that —"
A loud buzzing echoes around the studio, practically screaming through the silence. My breath catches when I realize it's my phone vibrating in my purse, and I rush for it, pulling it out quickly to silence it. The last thing we need is to draw any patrolling security guards toward us.
I almost decline the FaceTime call, expecting to see Halle's name, but when I read the name flashing on the screen, my brows knit, and I rack my brain, trying to figure out why he might be calling me right now.
Looking back to Ben, I point over my shoulder toward the door. "I'm sorry, I have to take this really quick. I'll be right back."
He nods quickly, motioning for me to go ahead and I turn, practically running toward the door as my phone vibrates in my hand. When I push it open and walk out, I head toward the display case across the hall for a bit of light as I press accept on the call. It takes a second to load, but then Luke grins at me as he shakes his wet hair out of his eyes.
"Sup, Little J?"
His camera is blurred slightly, likely from the steam floating up around him. His bare chest is still wet, and water droplets are dripping down from his hair, racing down his chest to the indents of his abs. My eyes widen when I realize that he's nearly naked, and I look away, face burning when he sets his phone down, so the shot gets the towel tucked low on his waist into view.
"Luke!" I squeak, keeping my eyes on the display case. "Why are you naked?"
"I'm in a towel," he defends like that's completely different. I keep my eyes averted, and I don't have to look back to the screen to know he's rolling his eyes. "Fine, hold on." He turns the phone over, so the shot goes dark, and I relax a little as I look back at the black screen. The background noise is one big jumbled mess of laughs and voices melding together, and my cheeks warm at the thought of what Micah's doing right now.
When the screen lights back up, Luke adjusts the phone, so it's propped up in his locker again, although he has jeans on this time.
"Pants. Happy?" He deadpans, grabbing his deodorant. He uncaps it and rubs it under both arms before tossing it back into the locker, nearly knocking over his phone in the process.
"Why are you calling me from your locker room?" I question, raising a brow as I inconspicuously study the glimpses of his teammates walking behind him to their lockers. I think Cooper walked by, and definitely West; there was a guy with short brown hair, but his skin was golden brown and untouched by ink.
"He's still in the shower." Luke grins, closing the door of his locker a fraction to block anyone walking by, and my cheeks flame as I look back at him. "But you know where he'll be in twenty minutes? O'Malley's. You should come. I'll even pick up your tab if you do." I raise a brow at that, but before I can question it, he cuts me off. "You could bring your friends. I'll buy their drinks, too."
There it is.
"Olivia's in California, Luke." I sigh, leaning back against the wall. "Tonight was her first game." The cool surface is like ice against my still flaming skin, and I relax into it as I watch the lively flush of his cheeks disappear, followed by his playful smile.
"That was tonight?" He takes a deep breath and his jaw tenses as he runs a rough hand through his hair. His voice is softer, quieter as he asks, "How'd she do?"
"Great — I think. I don't really know much about volleyball, but she played so well in the pre-season tournaments her coach started her tonight." I'm about to mention that Olivia was also the only freshman who started tonight, but a voice calls out for him before I can, echoing loudly through the locker room.
"McConnell — medical, now. I have to take a look at that knee."
Luke looks over his shoulder, nodding curtly at the older man walking past in a USW polo. When he looks back at me, his voice is clipped as he says, "See you later, Little J."
Looking up, he nods toward whoever just opened the locker beside him, and instead of ending the call, he hands his phone off and walks away. Micah's face appears on the screen, confusion knitting his brows as he looks down at the phone. His hair is wet, dripping down his shoulders and chest, and my body heats again as I watch the droplets race down his stomach, following the dips and indents of his muscles.
"Josie?"
"Hey." It comes out a little breathless, and by the twitch of his cheek, I know he heard it.
"You know, if you wanted to see me naked again, you could've just asked." He keeps a straight face as he sits down on the bench behind him, the muscles in his stomach pulling taut as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm a lot more impressive in person."
"Luke called me, actually," I say, biting back my smile as his brows raise in mock disbelief.
"And what did he want?" He asks. My cheeks warm even more when his eyes slowly flick down. When they linger on the bottom of the screen, I know exactly what he's looking at. The blush pink dress I'm wearing has a lace-up bodice, and when his throat bobs with a hard swallow, my heart skips a beat.
"He invited me out to O'Malley's," I say. "Well, he invited me so I'd bring Olivia."
His eyes shoot back up and his lips pull back into a broad smile. "You're coming?"
The excitement swirling in his eyes is a near replica of the storm brewing outside. The sight of his wicked smile is tempting enough, but when his eyes flick back down the screen, trained on the delicate ribbon holding my top in place, I'm already doing the math in my head, trying to figure out if I have time to skip tonight. When the hard realization hits that I have less than six weeks to finish five more pieces, I clear my throat and sigh.
"I shouldn't. I have to work on my portfolio."
His head falls back with a soft groan, and I try to ignore the instant reaction of my body to the sound. When he looks back at the camera, he nods, shaking his hair out of his face as he says, "Alright, fine, but I'm calling dibs on you this weekend."
"You're calling dibs on me," I muse, fighting hard to hold back my smile. "What if I already have plans?"
"Cancel them." He shrugs. "I have a pinky promise to keep, remember?"
To teach me how to ride his motorcycle. After everything that happened at the hospital, I almost forgot. My pulse quickens at the thought. Why did I choose something that could actually kill me? I should have made him promise to go to a movie with me or have a Ghost Adventures marathon, not something that might end my life.
"Micah..." I hesitate, looking down at my white shoes now stained from my shift at the diner.
"You've got this, Jo. I'll be with you the entire time." His voice is softer, and the soothing tone surprises me, pulling my attention back to the screen.
"What if we just watched movies instead? Or went to the creek." I cross my arms over my chest, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my smile from breaking through when his gaze drops down the screen instantly. His brows raise a little before looking back up, and my body warms, imagining his ink-covered hands gently pulling on the ribbon holding my dress together. One pull of this ribbon and his hands and lips would be exploring me.
A rush of heat climbs my neck at the thought, and when his eyes darken as he watches the flush reach my cheeks, I know he knows exactly what I'm thinking about.
His cheek twitches as he leans forward, keeping his eyes trained on me to watch my cheeks flame as he says, "I'm going to teach you how to ride, Josie. Might as well start with the bike."