I’m about to ask if he carved our names into the concrete like it was a tree, when we turn the corner of the pillar—and I lose the ability to speak.
Parked behind the pillar is a champagne-colored motorcycle with shimmery handles and the prettiest caramel leather seat I’ve ever seen in my life. Everything about it is chic and well-designed. I have no idea how much motorcycles cost, but there is no way this one was sitting in a lot somewhere. It was specifically designed this way.
But for who? That is the question.
“Do I need to draw a map for you? This is the surprise.”
Lower your expectations. That’s what he said. So that is what I’m going to try to do.
“Someone is letting me borrow it?”
He screws up his face, confused and a little disappointed. “Someone is letting you own it.”
“Bu
