“You’re crashing my eighty-year-old grandmother’s birthday party?” Her tone was disbelieving. “Are you out of your mind?” “I like older people,” he said defensively. “I had no plans for the evening, so I thought I’d drop by.” Eve stared at the broad-shouldered man in the gray T-shirt, black leather vest, and distressed jeans. His hair was still damp from a recent shower. He hadn’t bothered to shave for what appeared to be days. A motorcycle helmet hung from his left hand. She looked down her nose at the big, bad bike parked on the lawn. “Is that your ride on the new sod?” “It’s a 1951 Vincent Black Shadow,” he said proudly. “Hand-assembled. There are only eighteen hundred in existence.” “Shouldn’t it be showcased? Preserved in a garage?” “I’d rather show it off.” “You could have left it on the street.” “Parked between the golf carts and three-wheel bicycles?” He was all shock and indignation. “No way in hell. It stays on the grass.
