Beauty & the Biker (7 page)

On that note, Bella threw herself into the discussion regarding arts and crafts and kickass bluegrass while dodging her own misgivings about this year’s festival. She was determined to focus on the good things in life because Lord knew she’d had it up to her eyeballs with turmoil.

Chapter Four

An hour after Bella left Funland, Joe still had beauty on the brain.

He’d spent the first half hour envisioning a string of calamities. Princess Rainbow perched on the ladder’s top rung—fumbling and falling and breaking her neck.

Pounding nails into loose floorboards—missing and making mincemeat out of that frosty pink manicure.

Thoughts of her handling his power drill or circular saw conjured more graphic mishaps.

Not that he was a chauvinist. For all he knew Bella possessed decent carpentry skills. But there was a chance the woman was accident prone. Case in point, she’d botched scaling his fence. Granted she’d been compromised by layers of skirt, still, he wasn’t keen on tempting fate or for that matter the wrath of the town. With his luck, the revered librarian would suffer a horrific accident on his property under his watch.

Damn
.

When striking the deal, he should’ve steered her efforts inside—polishing the newly varnished banister, organizing his kitchen cabinets. That would’ve meant her invading his sanctuary, but at least she would have been safe.
Maybe
. If she was accident-prone she could fall prey to any one of a hundred household accidents.

Great
.

Clearly, the only way to guarantee Bella didn’t suffer some mangling mishap on Funland was to break the deal. Barring her from his property would also protect her from his cynicism. To be fair, even though he thought she was too trusting, she didn’t deserve being exposed to his suck-ass brand of ugly. On the other hand, living with her head in the clouds was dangerous—for her and for the children she influenced. Those wide-eyed innocents would benefit more from cautionary tales than fanciful rhymes and happily-ever-afters. Not that Bella had to traumatize them with grisly accounts, but there was a lot to be said for wariness. Even at age four. From Joe’s experience, kids were at risk the moment they left the womb.

Mood worsening, he strode to his customized bike, anxious to escape the approaching funk. His thoughts volleyed between Chicago and Nowhere. When he thought about that storybook scene…when he considered the thousand-and-one atrocities that could happen to each and every soul in that kids’ circle, a murderous rage bubbled. He wanted to protect Princess Rainbow and her gleeful mini-minions from the monsters of the world. Hell, he wanted to slay those ruthless bastards, including the one hibernating within.

He couldn’t have it both ways.

Joe spent the next half hour outriding his demons. Taking to the open road on his customized bike helped. Gripping the bars, seizing control. Driving hard and fast on the open road, surrounded by endless fields and clear blue skies. No traffic to slow him down. No skyscrapers blocking the sun. No crush of humanity. No chaos. No crises.

No suffering
.

Racing into the wind until, little by little, mile by mile, his tension blew away. His gut settled. His mind relaxed. A Zen-like ritual that never failed. By the time Joe muscled the bike back toward Funland, he’d left darker memories in the dust.

Brighter, prettier thoughts prevailed.

The blue-eyed librarian in the puffy yellow gown and muddy red gym shoes.

Talk about an unlikely attraction.

Joe preferred experienced women. Overtly sexy, mostly. Street-smart or worldly, definitely. Women who welcomed casual affairs. Sweet, cute, and fanciful wasn’t his style. He blamed Bella’s surprising ferocious streak. That and his own unprecedented dry spell. His sex drive had crashed along with his career. He hadn’t been with a woman in months. His bad luck that Princess Rainbow had been the one to kick-start his engine. She wasn’t the kind of girl you fooled around with. She was the kind you brought home to mother. Worse. The kind who’d want her own children.

Hell would freeze over before he’d bring a kid into this demented world.

Still, his damned pecker twitched when he angled off the road, into the drive, and spotted the red riding mower. Why the mower and not Big Red? And why now? They agreed to start renovations tomorrow. But then he caught sight of the form leaning against the big elm to the right of the gate.

Not Bella.

Joe rolled to a stop. He took off his helmet, but left on his shades. He made no move to unlock the gate. One neighbor on his property in a day was more than enough. Still straddling his bike, he afforded his visitor a raised brow. “What can I do for you, Mooney?”

Shoulders squared, the older man pushed off the tree and walked toward Joe.
Walked
, not swayed. Big improvement over last night. His blue jeans sagged and his plaid shirt was wrinkled. The brim of the Huskers ball cap was tugged low to shield his eyes and his clenched jaw was peppered with stubble. Worse for wear, but sober. And pissed.

Fists clenched at his side, Mooney cleared his throat, waged his words. “My daughter,” he began. “She said you returned the truck. I’m not pleased that she asked and, while I appreciate your gesture, Savage, I’m not partial to charity.”

Mooney looked away, tugged the brim of his cap even lower. “I still owe you for that last hand. I don’t have the money. Thought I could work it off.” He motioned toward his mower then to the overgrown grass uglifying Joe’s lawn. “Mike used to keep the yard nice. And even though Funland’s no longer operational, he kept the amusement grounds trim, too. Matter of pride.”

Mooney paused and Joe considered. He didn’t know what to address first. The misconception that he’d returned the truck, no strings attached. Or Mooney’s assumption that Joe was somehow disgracing Mike’s memory.

“Brought along my clippers and edger. Might take a couple of days, but I’ve got the gear to tackle this job.”

Joe knew an act when he saw one. Archie Mooney was forcing his spine straight, infusing his tone with casual confidence. On the inside he was beaten. Despondent over recent losses. Embarrassed by his daughter’s intervention. The man was primed for an emotional breakdown. Sometimes spilling your guts to a stranger was easier than bearing your soul to a friend. Joe did not want to be that sounding board. “Thanks, but, no.”

“Bella said she offered to help you fix up the house,” Mooney went on undaunted. “Said that’s what good neighbors do. I’m thinking it was her quiet way of paying off my obnoxious debt.” His gaze whipped to Joe’s. “I’m asking you to release her from that offer.”

Take me, not her.

“My debt. Not hers,” he added.

Joe couldn’t argue that, but
damn
. He didn’t want Archie Mooney on his property. Invading his privacy. Making casual conversation. Asking questions. Poking into his past.

On the other hand, even though he’d toyed with cutting her loose, he was anticipating Bella’s next visit. Joe hadn’t looked forward to anything in a good long while. At least not something that involved the company of another person.

He chose his words carefully, assuming now that Bella hadn’t been honest with her dad about their deal. “Seems I insulted your daughter by returning her welcome basket a few weeks back.”

Mooney nodded. “She’s sensitive like that. And it was…”

Rude
?
Ungrateful
?

“Surprising.”

“I’d hate to insult her neighborly intentions a second time,” Joe said with a forced smile. “If Bella wants to withdraw her offer, let it come from her.”

“She won’t back out. That’s not her way. Not our way. Folks around here, we tend to keep our word.”

“Honorable.”

“Yup.” Mooney thumbed up his brim, narrowed his eyes. “Are you?”

The guy was worried about his daughter. Wondering if she was safe with Joe—a veritable stranger with an obvious chip on his shoulder.
Smart man
. “Returned your truck, didn’t I?” Joe’s best response considering his floundering definition of honor.

“Which brings me back to that charity thing.”

Just like his daughter, Mooney wasn’t backing down. Joe admired that. The few times he’d been in town, he’d perpetuated a glacial air. He’d put up walls, fences, signs.
No trespassing
. For all they knew he was a gun-running thug hiding an arsenal under Funland’s broken
Cowboy Carousel
or a psychotic dealer brewing meth behind the dilapidated
Buffalo Bounce
.

Yet they’d both gotten in his face.

And under his skin.

Damn
.

Joe nodded toward the mower. “Forget Funland. Just tackle the front and side lawn.” Which included overgrown bushes and weed-infested flowerbeds. “Then we’ll be square.”

“Don’t know about that.” Mooney swiped off his cap, scratched his greying head. “Last night’s fuzzy, but I remember you helping me into the cab, paying the fare.”

“Forget it.”

“Can’t. I’d been set on driving myself home. My senses, my judgment, they were…muddled. I could’ve hurt myself or, God forbid, someone else. Mowing your lawn won’t square us, Savage. But it’s a start. By the way,” he added while mounting his mower, “in case you had any designs on my daughter, best to steer clear. Bella’s as good as engaged, and Carson—one of the most influential men in Nowhere—is territorial
where she’s concerned.” He crooked his own fake-ass smile. “Just a neighborly tip.”

Well, hell
.

Chapter Five

By the time Buzz-Bees closed for the day—four-thirty p.m. same as every day—Chrissy Mooney had built up a huge head of steam. True to her word, she’d googled Joe Savage.

Her Internet search had been limited to her phone and intermittent downtime on the job. There hadn’t been a lot of that today. One of her co-workers had called out sick. Chrissy had bounced between manning the register and stirring up batches of chocolate peanut butter cookies for a last minute order via the monthly meeting of the Grandmothers’ Club.

Distractions aside, she’d still logged on, determined to learn something about biker dude. Chrissy had only seen Nowhere’s newest resident once, rolling up to Larson’s Grocery on his badass ride. Like his fiercely fine motorcycle, Savage was dark and intimidating. Good looking, sure, but not worth the trouble. Dude had serious issues. Ask anyone who’d spent ten seconds in his company. Not that anyone knew anything specific, just that he was anti-social and a bit of a recluse. If you asked her, the man was a dick. Then again that was Chrissy’s assessment of most men. Still, Savage had earned that moniker the moment he’d refused her cousin’s welcome basket. Dumped it, contents untouched, on Bella’s porch in the dead of the night.

Dick with a capital D.

And now that same wanker had somehow duped Bella into spending time alone with him on the creepy, defunct grounds of Rootin’ Tootin’ Funland in addition to being his date for some mysterious event in an undisclosed location. Chrissy stewed on that scenario all day and couldn’t spin it beyond a disaster in the making.

Bella was one of the kindest, sweetest souls Chrissy had ever known. And she wasn’t prejudiced just because Bella was her cousin and one of her closest friends. Anyone who spent five minutes with Bella would swear the same. She had a pure heart, boundless energy, and an amazing ability to make lemonade out of lemons. Sometimes people mocked her—
Is she for real?
—but mostly everyone admired her and wished they could channel even half of her optimism. With Bella, the glass was always half full. Never half empty. She saw the good in everything and everyone and she never judged.

Tolerant with a capital T.

She’d certainly been tolerant of Chrissy’s missteps over the years, including her unplanned pregnancy. Bella had been Chrissy’s fiercest champion in her darkest times and that was just one of the reasons Chrissy decided to ignore her cousin’s wishes when it came to reaching out to Ryan McClure. Besides, even though Bella had no doubt intended to warn off of all the Inseparables, she’d directed that “absolutely not” at Georgie. Chrissy had hotfooted it through that
loophole. Unfortunately, her Internet research regarding Joe Savage had bombed. She’d gotten hundreds of hits on numerous men with the same name, and she didn’t know enough about Bella’s Savage to narrow the search. Instead of spinning her wheels, she’d tracked down Ryan, asking if he’d be available for a chat around four-forty-five.

He was.

So she’d called her mom and asked if she’d watch Melody for an extra hour while Chrissy ran an errand.

She would.

Four-thirty finally came and—after a short discussion with Mrs. Fiedler who popped out of the Yarn Barn to ask advice on a knitting project—Chrissy jumped into her car and hit the gas. Ryan—
Sheriff
McClur
e—had agreed to meet her at the old diner on Highway 20. A few minutes down the road, her phone pinged with a text. Although it originated from her mom’s phone, the note was from Melody.

Love u mama

Chrissy’s heart pounded and swelled and pounded some more. Not just because of the message itself—although that was glorious—but because she’d only just started teaching Melody how to text as a new and additional form of communication.