I spin on my heel and bolt out the door.

“Wait, Mr. Stone—” Stephanie calls out behind me. Nothing she has to say will stop me. I cannot let Emma go. If I had time, I might be mad. I could be furious that she would fly to some asshole after—but we made no promises. I didn’t speak, and I should have. I won’t make that mistake again.

Bypass the elevators. Shove open the stairwell door.

Shit.

Fuck.

Hell.

Damn.

My boots boom on the stairs, and I keep time with curses. At the bottom, I burst out of the heavy metal door and into the sun. Ten steps to my bike. I strap the helmet on and step on the kick start at nearly the same time. The sleek machine responds to a feather touch, and I whisper to her, begging her to get me there on time.

She growls reassuringly as I pull into traffic. The fact that I just came from the airport fills me with rage. I pound the handlebars in frustration.

In fifteen feet, turn left.

Of course. I veer through two lanes, assess oncoming traffic, and determine I can make it. I rev the engine and lean into the turn. My back tire skids, but I ride it out. Then I gun it.

A horn blares, but I’m gone and not looking back.

This is my own fault.

I start peppering my curses with a chanted plea for cops to stay away.

Ahead, someone opens a car door into my lane. He never looks my way.

I stand on the pegs and push the handlebars toward the ground on the left side, fast, and jerk it back upright. The driver drops his phone when I buzz him, zigzagging around in the blink of an eye.

More cars join the flow. Fucking rush hour. I slip between cars and sidle up to the light, ignoring the angry looks around me.

In two hundred yards, take the ramp on the right. Stay in the right lane to merge onto Interstate 5.

I pass a black Chrysler sedan and angle in front of it to take the ramp. I can really let my baby fly now. I pick up speed, roaring onto the freeway. Rush hour traffic is heavy here, too, but at least the flow is uninterrupted.

Signs point toward Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, so I close the GPS.

I open the throttle and fly toward Emma.

A cluster of slow moving vehicles has gathered in the right three lanes. I will not lose her to some Spanish dickhead. On an exhale, I give it more and aim my bike between two rows of cars. They slide past in a blur. I shoot into a hole and stay there until another space opens up, and then I aim for that one. The one-mile warning for the airport exit looms.

Desperation clogs my throat.

I won’t make it.

I have to.

I weave through the remaining cars and cut across two lanes to hit the exit ramp at seventy miles an hour.

When I pull up at the airport, I pull up to the sidewalk, sling my helmet on the seat, and run inside. Impound, ticket, whatever. The doors swish behind me, and I realize I ran out without asking the airline. I unzip my jacket and look around, hoping for a miracle. Okay. I can scan the board for all flights on any airline to Spain, or I can have her paged. Or both. Or I can hold a stick in the air and hope magic points me to her.

Definitely page her.

I take off toward the Delta counter nearest me. People in line give me strong stink-eye as edge past them. Waving to get an attendant’s attention, I get ready to explain that this is a dare to be great situation. A movie finale. True love. Then I spot Emma, several lines down and stepping up to the counter.

I will not lose her. Not like this. I will not lose her because I wouldn’t act.

“Emma!” I shout.

She lugs a suitcase onto the scale.

“Emma! Wait!”

People step out of my way as I cut across the lines, calling her name.

Emma turns at the second or third call, her mouth falling open as I shoulder through in my black motorcycle leathers.

“Nate, what’s wrong? Are you flying out, too?”

I take the final steps at a run. Without speaking, I fold her into my arms. When I crush my mouth to hers, her lips part for me without hesitation. Our tongues meet, and I tighten the embrace. Hope surges that there’s still time for me. My kiss asks her the things I can’t speak. Her arms wind around my neck, a gesture that slows my pounding heart for the first time since I got the news of her trip. Mutters around us get louder, so I shuffle us to the side of the ticket line.

Her eyes widen when I pull away.

“Nate, what’s—”

“I couldn’t let you go without telling you. If you’d asked me a month ago if this could happen, I’d have laughed at you. But there it is. No one makes me feel the way you do. No one else challenges me the way you do. Tell me I’m crazy and that there’s nothing here. Emma”—I weave my fingers through her chestnut waves—“I love you. Tell me there’s a chance for us to have something real. Something ours, not tangled up in company business.” I lower my voice because she would want me to. “Something more than sex. Whatever reasons you have for leaving right now, we can make this work. I know I look like a risk on paper, but with you,” My voice cracks. “With you, I’m a sure thing.”

Emma twists her hands into my shirt. She yanks me to her for another passionate kiss, and people begin applauding around us, with light booing and the occasional “Get a room!”

Breathless, we separate enough to gasp for air. “Nate, I feel the same way. I—I think I love you, too.”

“Please stay, Emma. Don’t go to him.”

Her head recoils in surprise.

“What?”

“Your crazy ex-boyfriend, whatever his name is. Your assistant said you were going to Spain. I thought—I thought maybe I didn’t move fast enough. I thought I’d missed my chance with you.”

Her face lights up with a mischievous smile, ear to ear. “This is because you think I’m going back to Rafael?”

“Uh, I did. Maybe not now, though.”

“No. Even without you, I’m done with him. This is a business meeting. Learning Spanish for Rafael opened up some unusual opportunities. I have him to thank for that, at least.” She sways against me as the next person in line jostles us aside to put his baggage on the scale. “But it’s nice to know how you feel.”

I laugh and lift her up to eye level. “I’m an all-in kind of man, Emma. And I want you.”

“I want you too, Nate.” Her face falls into a more serious expression. “But I have a company to run. Fifty percent of it, anyway. And things to do. I won’t be with someone who doesn’t respect that. You might not always get all of me.”

“You remember I run companies, too, right?” I chuckle. “You wouldn’t be the woman I love without passion for your work. It’s half of what I love about you.”

Her eyes search mine. She must find what she wants there, because she relaxes into me. I loosen my grip and let her slide down.

“And the other half?”

“Obviously your ass.”

“Obviously. No one else has one of those.”

Reaching behind her, I grab her suitcase. Her other hands slides naturally into mine. “My plane is already here. Let me take you to Spain, and then to Tahiti. Bungalow. Sun. Aquamarine oceans. All the pleasure your body can take.”

“Just like that? I can’t—”

“Say yes. Tahiti has Wi-fi. Everything you need. Say yes.”

“You’re crazy, but yes.” She stops and pulls me in for a peck on the cheek. “Sweep me off my feet, Nate Stone.”

“Emma Vance, I hereby promise you will spend as much time off your feet as I can manage.” I wiggle my eyebrows and leer at her.

“Deal.”