“Where? There isn’t any room on it with you taking up all the space.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Andrew laughed, “and sit your whiny ass down. Do you want a helmet?”
Seraphina’s nose scrunched. “No.”
A bright yellow helmet was thrust into Seraphina’s chest. Andrew put his own helmet on, tucking his hair back. “Too bad. I don’t play around with safety.”
Seraphina opened her mouth to protest but closed it just in time when she remembered why he was such a stickler for safety. Again, she thought that this was the worst idea she’d ever agreed to. It was like she was having an out of body experience, watching herself climb onto Drew’s scooter, slipping on the helmet…casting all caution to the winds…
The scooter came to life. Seraphina found herself pressed against Andrew’s back. His shoulders were twice as broad as her waist. The man was built, but there was a softness to him too; unexpected given his history. Well, that and the puppy dog quality to him. She knew he was two years older than her but somehow, she felt protective of him.
Before they left, the motor rumbled and Andrew let out a laugh that deeply worried his passenger.
“Hold on,” Andrew announced, his voice hidden to everyone but Seraphina and the Vespa, “today we leave our miserable selves at this hotel. From here on out, we are whoever we want to be.”
Screaming on a Vespa was not the way Seraphina thought she would be spending her time in Brazil. Propelling through the narrow, crowded streets of downtown Rio de Janeiro, the Vespa came close to ejecting its passengers three times. Andrew ran a red light, bangs a left, shouted at a taxi that cut them off, and pushed the motor to full speed. Skyscrapers and palm trees whipped past them.
Seraphina tried to focus on something, but her head rattled inside the helmet. She should have asked for full body gear. She was going to die. They were going to die—if she had to die in a scooter crash in Rio de Janeiro, she was taking the fucking crazy-ass driver down with her.
A prayer to the gods of Brazil was sent as the Vespa sliced through a clogged section of the city. Across a square of pedestrians they went with Andrew hollering in broken Spanish for people to get out of the way. Seraphina smacked Andrew’s helmet and cussed that they were in Brazil—idiot—and they speak Portuguese. Of course, right after, the Vespa careened to the left and Seraphina’s arms returned to the anchor that was Andrew’s chest. There was nothing sexy about this position, though there could be.
With any other driver, there would be a chance to do a little bump and grind, get a little worked up before they arrived at their destination. She could rub against the perk of Andrew’s ass or clench her thighs around Andrew’s hips. But no. Seraphina had managed to successfully leave the safety of the Royal Tulip and all she knew, trading it all for a death ride on a neon yellow scooter of doom. Red lights were non-existent. Yellow lights were dares. Green lights were opportunities of insanity. This was why the helmet was necessary. Seraphina might puke in hers.
Five impossible minutes later, and the Vespa’s motor was cut. By the grace of the universe, they had arrived in one piece to their destination, which was…
“An art museum?” Seraphina blurted out, slurring her speech, inwardly swearing. “Really?”