When he takes me up to see the bike after our bathroom break it's a cyborg too, only the opposite of me. I'm mostly girl with machine parts, but the bike is mostly bike with girl parts. In fact, this bike is a girl. Well, a girl of the cyborg persuasion. She's bent over at the hips and her arms reach down, acting as the front fork that holds the tire. Her head acts as the headlight, and her back is the tank, but it looks a lot like my stomach at the moment. Parts of it are painted in just the right way to make it look like it's got a huge hole in it, with tubes and piston visible.

I actually clap at this one and make a remark to Spencer that it's very Terminator 2.

He loves that and has to stifle a proud grin with his fist.

Today I'm really happy to be a part of this project. Spencer is amazing. The Shrike bikes are stunning. And his artwork is incredible. I hope Antoine gives me some of these photos, because this is something I'd like to remember forever.

Maybe the bikinis were pretty boring and exploitative, but this is definitely more like movie FX.

And then there's Ford.

This morning at the stadium we talked a lot. Much more than usual. Not about me, not at all. But about him. I asked him about his schooling and he told me all about CU Boulder and their film department. He even went so far as to say he could get me in to talk to someone.

He even hinted at an internship next summer.

How incredible would that be?

I jerk back to reality as Spencer asks me to tilt my head up so he can paint my face. Ford is still reading.

And I tell you what, this whole let me read to you thing is just about the most tender expression I've ever experienced with a man. I'm not sure why, maybe because of the book. It's such a sweet book, so opposite of Ford in every way, that the fact that he's willing to read those words out loud, just to make me happy, well—it does something to me.

It doesn't want to make me jump his bones, but it does add to the ever-growing, and ever-changing, view I have of Ford.

Ronin is not happy. But I don't care. I don't want Ford. I'm not in love with him, I'm not even fantasizing about kissing him or touching him or anything like that. I'm just not interested in him that way. I'm interested in Ronin that way. So I don't feel bad about these new feelings for Ford. Ronin will have to get over it because Ford and I might become friends.

"OK, Blackbird. You're ready for your close-up."

I smile at the movie reference. I look over at Ronin and he's asleep.

"Should we let him get his beauty rest?" Ford asks. "I can walk you upstairs and fill in for Ronin in the shoot. You haven't posed with me yet."

"Um, that's a big negative, Ford. Ronin?" I shake him a little.

"I'm awake!" he says, sitting up.

"Right," I laugh. "We're ready to go upstairs." Ford heads out ahead of us and Ronin gets up and takes my hand, still not fully awake. "You're tired from all that driving, huh?"

He smiles. "It's catching up with me. But we're in the home stretch now, Gidge. We'll crash soon."

"I'm pretty tired too, that was the longest painting session yet. Do you have to get ready?"

"Just your basic futuristic road warrior shit, nothing like you, my cyborg sex kitten."

"I love this one. I feel like…"

"A cyborg sex kitten?"

"Yeah," I say, snickering. I really am a cyborg sex kitten because my girls are painted up with huge blue ni**les and the clothing Spencer painted on is more like small strips of metallic blue fabric that criss-cross my body in all the wrong places. Which means, to the men, all the right places. None of the fun bits are covered by the fake fabric in the least. My legs are painted up to look like I'm wearing ripped blue leggings, and I have painted boots that come up just past my ankle. "I don't really look like her, but I feel like a cyborg Tank Girl."

"Mmmm, I crushed on her pretty hard back in the day. She's hot."

We part ways in the studio, I go to Josie for hair—no makeup because Spencer painted my face this time—and Ronin goes to the dressing room to change. We meet in front of the bike about thirty minutes later and Ronin is absolutely the sexiest Terminator that ever existed. "I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle," I quote from the movie, snickering under my breath.

"What'd you say, Gidget?"

"Oh." I blush. "Did I say that out loud?"

He grins down at me and takes my hand. "Let's make this fun, wanna make it fun?"

"I could use some fun, actually."

He leans into me and begins to kiss my neck, his hands lightly exploring my body, just barely skimming my skin so he doesn't disturb the paint. I arch my back and tip my head and his hand slides up and caresses my throat.

"Sorry," he says as he moves his hand away.

I'm just about to ask what he meant by that when Antoine starts giving us directions in French and there's no time, because I lose track of everything but Ronin's words. They are soft and slow, not anything like our last shoot when it was his hands that got me excited. He's tender with cyborg sex-kitten Rook. I slide against him and he strokes my cheek with the side of his index finger and then he leans in and kisses me.

It's not bruising or deep, but just a flicker, his tongue darting forward just enough to tease me, twisting against my lips, then pulling back so I'm left wanting more. He strokes my hair as he watches me with a question in his eyes.