We roar down deserted back roads, past vineyards shrouded in morning mist, hushed redwood forests, and ancient orchards heavy with midsummer fruit. Soon the only things on my mind are an awareness of how incredible the fresh air feels buffeting my skin, and a terrified voice at the core of my brain assuring me that I’m ABOUT TO FUCKING DIE!

Despite my long-standing rebellious tendencies, I’ve never actually ridden on a motorcycle before. Most of my friends are artists and musicians who need cars large enough to carry their art and music-making supplies, or book nerds like me who are cautious by nature and can’t help memorizing odd bits of information—like the terrifying statistics on motorcycle-related crashes each year.

The closest I’ve ever been to tearing up the road Harley style was on a rented moped that tapped out at twenty-five miles per hour.

But as Rafe guides his sleek machine out of the cool Green Valley hollows into the full sun on the highway toward Santa Rosa, we’re going at least fifty.

Maybe sixty.

Seventy-five, the hysterical voice screeches. When you hit the pavement, you’ll splatter on impact. They’ll have to put you back together like a jigsaw puzzle for the funeral. They may never find your eyeballs!

I press my face against Rafe’s back, inhaling the soap and leather smell of him, focusing on the assured way he directs the bike purring between our thighs. He’s clearly a man who’s at ease—and at one with—his machine. He’s in command, in control, and I’m not in any danger.

At least not in danger of imminent splatterment.

There are other dangers, of course…

The risk inherent in leaving my hiding place and venturing out into the world, where people are, in record numbers this very morning, learning what I look like naked. The risk of spending quality time with a man who isn’t on board with a low-key hookup, despite the way his gaze lasered in on my chest while I was on the porch.

Damn, but I liked being looked at like that. By him. The heat in his eyes was enough to make my nipples hard and my nerve endings sizzle, but Rafe made it clear that he wants to stay in the friend zone.

And I’m fine with that…in theory.

But considering that every time we touch electricity leaps between us, his eyes go dark and sexy, and my mind floods with X-rated thoughts, I don’t know how long we’ll be able to be good. And if we’re bad, Rafe might come to regret me, maybe even resent me, and I really don’t want that to happen.

I was telling the truth—I really could use a friend, especially one who isn’t so close to my issues. My sister is an incredible ally, but she’s also the most empathetic person on earth. Emma feels your pain all the way down to her marrow. Looking into her eyes and seeing your inner torment reflected back in high definition can just be too much.

Sometimes it’s nice to be with someone who’s content to ignore the elephant in the room and just watch some mindless television or—

“You subscribe to the paper?” I hop off the bike in back of Rafe and Dylan’s motorcycle repair shop-slash-microbrewery. Both are closed for the long weekend while Emma and Dylan are on their honeymoon, but Rafe lives in the two-bedroom apartment above.

He bends to scoop the paper off the stoop before fitting his key in the door. “I do. I like to know what’s happening in the world without some twenty-four-hour news station turning everything into a crisis.”

“Me, too,” I say, following him up a long, narrow staircase. “And I like the feel of it between my fingers. It’s so much more relaxing than reading online, and there are no eerily-relevant ads flashing in the sidebar reminding me that the bots are spying on me.”

“I hate that,” Rafe agrees. “Another reason I stay offline as much as possible.”

We reach the top of the stairs, and the space opens up into a large, airy apartment with lofted ceilings, exposed beams, and loads of light streaming in through windows overlooking the street below. There’s an enormous, overstuffed brown couch that looks cozy as hell, a leather coffee table perfect for spreading out the paper on, and a fan spinning lazily overhead that will keep the air cool as the morning warms up. It’s the perfect oasis of calm, and if I weren’t worried about starting things we shouldn’t finish, I would feel compelled to give Rafe another hug.

Instead, I smile and say, “Love your place.”

“Thanks. Simple, clean, and comfortable. That’s all I’ve got in the way of style.”

“I like it.” I’m about to suggest reading time and ask if I might presume upon his hospitality by making us a pot of coffee, when he grunts and dumps the Chronicle into the recycling container at the top of the stairs.

“We should skip the paper today.” He moves into the room, toward the kitchen on the far side of the space. “I’ve got yesterday’s lying around somewhere. I didn’t have a chance to read it before the wedding.”

“What? Why?” I ask, but then I catch a glimpse at the front page, peeking out of the recycling bin, and I know exactly why he’s chosen to pitch the paper.

“Oh no…” I crouch to read the headline aloud. “Bay Area author suspected of sexual misconduct? But I didn’t do anything sexual! I didn’t do anything at all!” I drive my fingers into my helmet-flattened hair as I sit down hard on his polished hardwood floors. “How is this spiraling out of control so fast?”

Rafe retraces his steps, sitting down next to me and pushing the recycling bin out of reach. “Do you need to call someone? A lawyer, maybe?”

“I-I don’t think so.” I bring my thumb to my mouth, nibbling at the rough spot near the edge. “Sensational headlines can say whatever they want, but I truly didn’t do anything wrong. Certainly, nothing that could result in criminal charges.” I hum, tapping the toes of my boots together as I think. “But I should probably get my agent to put a better spin on this, maybe help me hire a publicist. But he’s on a yoga retreat in Mexico with no Internet and won’t be back until Wednesday, and I don’t trust his assistant to know who would be best for a job like this.”

“You could reach out to Emma,” Rafe suggests gently. “She gives good advice.”

I shake my head. “No. I told you, I don’t want to talk. Talking is dumb.”

“Talking is dumb, but sometimes it’s necessary to keep from exploding.”

“I’m not going to explode.”

“You sure about that?” he asks, eyeing me warily.

I wrap my arms tight around my shins and hunch my shoulders. “Yes, I’m sure. Emma is enjoying her wedding breakfast. I feel bad enough for skipping it. The last thing I want to do is dump more rain on her parade.” Resting my chin on my knees, I add in a softer voice, “And most of my friends are friends with Jordan, too, and I don’t think I could handle it if they’ve decided to take his side.”

“He doesn’t have a side,” Rafe says. “He’s an asshole.”

I shrug as I glance up at him. “I’m sure he thinks he has a side. Even bad guys are good guys in their own heads, you know? They usually have what they believe are justifiable reasons for being awful.”

The furrow between Rafe’s brows deepens. “There is no justification for leaking private pictures. It doesn’t matter if the relationship is over, or how badly it ended, the trust that was given should still be sacred.”

“Yeah, well…” I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “Maybe you wouldn’t feel that way if you knew the whole story.”

“Doubtful. But run it by me.” Rafe shifts into a cross-legged position facing me. “I’m not much of a talker, either, but I’m a good listener.”

I shake my head self-consciously. “No, it’s okay. Really. I appreciate the offer, but it would be weird. I would be weird. I’m an advice-giving champ, but I don’t do the unburdening thing myself very often. I worry too much about unguarded words coming back to haunt me.”

He nods, eyes narrowing as he hums. “I know what you need.”

Mindless, hot-and-heavy sex so intense it will scald this nightmare from my thoughts for a few hours?

Aloud I ask, “What?” in a wary tone.

“You need the teepee of silence.”

I arch a skeptical brow.

“You do,” Rafe insists. “The teepee of silence was where my brothers and I used to go when we needed to let loose about something private. What’s shared in the teepee stays in the teepee. You can say anything, and no one will judge you or tell you to shut up or rat you out to the people in charge.”

“Too bad we don’t have a teepee handy,” I joke, though the concept does sound kind of nice. Sort of like therapy, but with people who love you instead of a person you’re paying to sit there and ask you how your shitty childhood makes you feel.

Why, it makes me feel shitty, doctor! Imagine that.

“That’s okay. We can improvise.” Rafe stands and reaches a hand down to me. “Help me grab blankets and pillows. My couch isn’t as big as the one my dad had when we were kids, but it’s big enough for a blanket fort built for two.”

My lips curve in spite of myself. “I haven’t built one of those in years. Not since Emma and I made a fort to watch scary movies in one Halloween when I was…” I trail off with a shake of my head. “God, I don’t even know. Maybe eight or nine? Still young enough to be terrified by Cujo. And Firestarter. And the bad guys in the Care Bears movie.”

Rafe grins. “No scary movies or Care Bears in this fort, I promise.”

I sigh, my smile fading. Horror movies would be far less scary than what Rafe’s proposing we get up to in this therapy teepee, but I can’t deny a part of me does want to talk, to let off some of the pressure. And though I don’t know Rafe that well, I trust him to keep his word about something like this.

“Come on, you’ll feel better after.” Rafe curls his fingers, beckoning me forward into the unknown.

“I’m not sure about that, but I guess I don’t have much left to lose.” I take his big, warm hand, letting him pull me to my feet.

And yes, awareness surges between us again, thickening the air with dangerous possibilities, making my lips tingle and my skin heat. But there is something new simmering beneath the surface now, too, something that feels like the first, tentative flickers of real friendship. Rafe is every bit the devil-may-care bad boy, but he’s got a heart under all the worn leather and faded denim.

Maybe even a good heart.

As I follow him to his hall closet and help pull out every blanket, fleece, and quilt in his personal collection, I try to avoid noticing how his jeans cling to his powerful thighs or the sexy stubble darkening his jaw. I keep my thoughts aboveboard and above the waist, the way a friend should. Because if Rafe is the guy I’m starting to think he is, I want him in my corner for the long haul. Good-hearted friends are worth their weight in gold and not worth risking on something as fleeting as a few world-rocking orgasms.

Though I’m sure they would have been world-rocking. Even the way the man arranges pillows is sensual and assured, carnal and powerful, and when he cocks his head and asks, “Ready to head inside?” in a husky voice, I can’t help wishing we were crawling into bed instead of into a blanket fort in the middle of his living room.

But I am a grown woman in control of myself, so I simply nod and say, “As ready as I’ll ever be,” and drop to my knees.