Page 55 of Rogue Riders Duet

“I’m charming,” he corrects. “Big difference.”

“You’re a menace.”

“That too.”

People are milling about, and among them, I see a camera lift to take a photo of us, and I bury my face in the back of Luc’s shoulder. “Oh my God.”

He laughs again, and this time it rumbles through his back into my chest. I want to scream.

“Don’t worry, mon Petit,” he says softly. “They’re here to film me. You’re just a very cute accessory.”

Did he just call me cute?

My brain follows the path of my body and short-circuits.

He’s like this to everyone, being flirty, loose, touchy. Full of sugar-laced chaos and half-meant compliments that make people trip over their own sense of reality, right?

God, I hope this is normal for him.

And I also hope it isn’t.

Luc carries me right through the pit, straight past all the people, cameras, and noise, and into the back without missing a beat.

When we come to a stop in front of two narrow doors, he lowers me a little too gently, like I might break if he’s not careful. His hands slowly skim up my bare legs before he lets go, and it feels reluctant.

I take a few moments to tug my hoodie back into place and get my breathing under control, but when I look up, the effort is wasted as I find him already looking at me. Then, he lifts a hand and brushes a strand of my too-short hair away from my eyes.

My breath hitches.

Hiccup.

God.

His eyes twinkle as he chuckles softly, like he’s genuinely delighted.

“Trop mignon,” he murmurs under his breath, barely louder than the sound of his knuckles tapping the door.

I don’t know what it means.

I don’t want to know what it means.

And I hate how badly I want to ask him.

He pushes open the door on the left, reclaims my wrist, and pulls me inside.

It’s a bright and clean room with a massage table sitting dead center, flanked by white shelves lined with rows of neatly rolled towels. A diffuser puffs lavender mist into the air. Only two other people are inside, both dressed in white. One is an older man with a serious face and a short, graying beard whose attention is fixed on the oils he’s lining up on a metal tray.

“Karl,” Luc says by way of introduction, clapping the guy on the shoulder like they’re old pals. “This is Petit Crews.” He jerks a thumb at me. “He’s taking my spot today. Had a bad crash and wrecked his hip, probably needs a deep session.”

The woman next to Karl scowls. She’s maybe in her early thirties, and her ash-blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail. I noticed her sharp blue eyes the second they flicked to us when we walked in. “Luc, can you please take the rat back already?”

She holds Toulouse out between us, straight-armed, but now he’s way too close to me, and I freeze.

Beady black eyes. Twitching whiskers. That long, naked tail curling like a question mark in the air between us.

I try not to recoil.

I really try.