Chapter 2

Shen Chichuan settled me onto the back of his motorcycle.

He even put a helmet on me.

“If you get scared, hold on tight.”

It was a motorcycle. I’d ridden one before.

“I won’t get scared.”

The other biker boys glared at me. “Boss! He doesn’t appreciate a damn thing!”

Shen Chichuan was too busy looking at me and swallowing to hear his friends.

“That helmet looks good on you. I’ll get you some riding gear in a couple of days.”

The boys gaped.

Before starting the bike, he reminded me, “Here we go. Hold on.”

The engine roared, and we shot into the wind.

My arms closed around the young man’s waist on instinct.

The bike seemed to hesitate for a second. Then we tore down the street, leaving his friends far behind.

Shen Chichuan lived in an actual mansion.

He parked in the courtyard and hopped off with ease.

My legs, however, had gone weak.

I stumbled getting off. His friends arrived just in time to laugh at me.

“Aren’t you a little old to be such a scaredy-cat? Can you handle anything?”

Shen Chichuan scooped me up and set me back on the seat. He removed my helmet, held my face in his hands, and asked, “Dizzy? Nauseous? Does your stomach hurt? I’ll get our doctor to check you over.”

“That was dangerous,” I complained. “Could you stop riding motorcycles?”

“Who the hell do you think you are, ordering our boss—”

“Okay. I’ll stop,” Shen Chichuan said.

His friends stared.

He helped me inside and called the doctor.

The doctor said I was fine. I’d just had a fright.

I thought I was fine, too. Standing on solid ground had already helped a lot.

Shen Chichuan hugged me as though his heart were breaking.

“I won’t ride a motorcycle ever again. Wherever you want to go, I’ll drive you.”

Maybe he wasn’t such a bad kid.

I’d gotten a little sick on his bike, and he was practically scared to tears.

After bringing me home, he bustled around, asking what I liked to eat and what I couldn’t have. Then he had the chef make an entire tableful of food.

“Get your strength back.”

I tried a bite. It was good.

At the same moment, one of the boys spat out his food. “Boss, why is there cilantro in this? I don’t eat cilantro.”

“Eat it or don’t,” Shen Chichuan said. “If you don’t like it, get out.”

I bit into a Sichuan peppercorn and spat it out.

“You don’t eat Sichuan peppercorns?” he asked.

I nodded, a little embarrassed.

He slapped the table and marched into the kitchen. “From now on, I don’t want a single Sichuan peppercorn anywhere in this house!”

“But your older brother loves the flavor, young master,” the chef protested.

“Then stop cooking for my brother. Problem solved.”

His friends said nothing.

They’d gone numb.