Ready to Fall (2 page)

“Exactly.” Sarah stared at her friends, willing them to understand her urgency. “This is my chance. I don't meet many handsome, kind, single men at either the school or the library, much less ones who can handle a woman like me for the long term. I have to do this. Which means I need to learn how to ride a bike.”

All three of her friends regarded her with identical expressions of fierce loyalty. It was that quality that had drawn her to them in the first place, the reason she kept coming back to the library summer after summer. The reason she could bare her heart to them, stripped of all artifice and exaggeration.

Penny's brows drew together. “Okay. Now that we understand the problem, it's time to solve it. Who here feels comfortable teaching Sarah to ride a bike before . . .” She turned to Sarah. “When is the retreat again?”

“In four days.”

“Okay,” Penny said. “Who has the time and ability to be her cycling instructor before then?”

Angie frowned. “Shit. Grant and I promised to visit my sister and my parents over the Fourth of July weekend, so I have to leave right after work tomorrow. I'm sorry, Sarah.” Angie's attention shifted to Penny. “What about you?”

“I would. Honestly, I would. But I'm not precisely the outdoorsy sort.” Penny spread her hands. “I wouldn't feel comfortable teaching Sarah, given that I can barely keep from falling off a bike myself.”

They all looked in Mary's direction.

Her brow creased in an apologetic wince. “I said I would babysit my nephew the next few nights so that my brother and his wife could have some alone time. I could call them and try to reschedule, though, if you'd like.”

“No, no.” Sarah waved a hand. “No need to do that. I'll figure out something. Who else might be able to teach me?”

“I know!” Angie slapped a hand down on the table. “Helen's not a fan of the outdoors, but her boyfriend is. Wes does triathlons. And those involve bikes at some point, right?”

Sarah stared at her. “You want me to ask the mayor of Niceville, who also works at the local pool and is creating a nonprofit in his nonexistent free time, to give me a riding lesson?”

Even for her, that seemed a little demanding.

“Why not?” Angie asked. “If he can't do it, he'll probably know someone who can. Let me call Helen.”

Five minutes later, Angie was writing down the name of one of Wes's friends, since Wes himself didn't have time to teach Sarah how to ride.

Angie tapped the screen of her phone to end the call. “So Helen says this guy owns a bike repair shop and goes on training rides with Wes all the time. Chris Dean. Apparently, he might have time to give lessons after the shop closes. However . . .”

When Angie didn't say anything for another moment, Sarah leaned forward. “What?”

“Helen also says he can get a little grumpy. Probably because he's still getting over a bad breakup. So you may need to do a little convincing.”

Renewed hope stiffened Sarah's spine, not to mention her resolve. “No problem. He'll never know what hit him.”

“Um . . .” Mary winced again. “Maybe you should tread lightly when asking him, Sarah.”

“Nah.” Sarah stood and started putting her notepad and pen into her purse. “I've got this. I'm a woman on a mission, and nothing can stop me now. Especially not a grumpy cyclist. I'll go see him after my early shift tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather call him first?” Penny asked. “Maybe give him a little warning?”

Sarah's plan was finally coming together. In a mere four days, she'd spend the entire day with Ulysses. She'd finally get his full attention. And once she did, surely he'd see how perfect they were for each other. All she had to do first was convince one cranky business owner to do her—the friend of a friend, kinda—a favor. Easy peasy.

Sarah winked at Penny. “No way. The element of surprise will work in my favor. Who can say no to the Drama Queen when she's right in front of him, begging for his assistance?”

“N
o,” said the young clerk at the discount store, his voice cracking.

“Are you sure? I desperately need someone to teach me how to ride this thing.” Sarah aimed a bright smile his way. “So I don't lose a limb or inadvertently mow down a toddler.”

She'd only intended to buy a bike there before driving to the repair shop and bothering Wes's friend. But then she'd had a brilliant idea. Instead of requesting Chris Dean's assistance, as she and her friends had planned the previous night, why shouldn't she ask one of the employees in this store's bike section to help her? Surely all of them knew how to ride. And she'd be more than happy to pay them a substantial amount for their help.

The kid in front of her—the sole clerk working in the sporting goods section—clearly wasn't convinced, however. His shoulders shifted uneasily under her pleading gaze, his blue polyester uniform rustling.

“You don't know how to ride a bike?” He still held the bike she'd chosen, which he'd removed from high on the wall of the store.

“Nope.” Despite his incredulous tone, her back remained straight and her head high. Now wasn't the time for embarrassment or second-guessing her mission. Now was the time for action. Swift, decisive action. And begging. Swift, pitiful begging. “Will you please help me? I'd be happy to pay you.”

The kid's brow furrowed, and he gave her a look that combined concern and pity. “Ma'am,” he said, “you're, like, forty or something. If you haven't learned by now, I wouldn't try. My grandma broke her hip just crossing the room with her walker.”

Then he put down the bike and scurried away. She didn't bother trying to call him back. Clearly, he wasn't her optimal teacher. Especially since she'd be tempted to run him over with the bike as soon as he showed her how to ride it.

She turned her attention to the bike, standing before her in the crowded store aisle. With a tentative fingertip, she reached out to touch the frame. It wobbled, which didn't surprise her. It also wouldn't have surprised her had it exploded or burst into flames.

“ ‘Designed for optimal user safety,' my ass,” she muttered.

Still, it was a bike of distinction. The main one being its price, the lowest she'd seen in the store. It also boasted a little faux-wicker basket, a cheerful color—purple, her favorite—and sparkly streamers dangling from each handlebar. And it seemed shorter than most of the other adult bikes on display, which was ideal for a woman who topped out at five feet.

The bike was perfect, or at least as perfect as an instrument of mayhem and carnage could be. But she still needed to learn how to ride the thing, and time was running out. So after she paid for the bike and a helmet, maneuvered everything through the parking lot, and heaved her purchases into the back of her SUV, she drove to a small strip mall near the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. According to Helen, Dean's Bike Repair Shop should be located right . . . about . . .

There. Where she could see an extremely tall, broad-shouldered man unlocking the shop door and wheeling his bike inside. Chris, most likely, since he matched the description Helen had given Angie. Without a single glance Sarah's way, he shut the glass door behind him and locked it again.

She took a moment to evaluate the store from inside her car. Funny. It didn't look much like a bike shop. Maybe because there were no actual bikes visible within it. Just a small open area and a counter with a cash register on top.

No matter. Chris Dean obviously possessed a minimalist aesthetic, but Sarah could work with that. She could work with anything at this point, as long as he agreed to teach her how to ride. So she climbed out of her car and marched directly to the shop door.

Even though the sign on that door read Closed Until 1 PM, she knocked anyway. She could see Chris crouching in the small shop, inspecting the rear wheel of his fancy-looking bicycle. Certainly fancier-looking than the bike she'd just picked up minutes ago.

No metallic streamers, though. Dude was missing out.

He didn't even look up at her knock. She rapped on the door again, this time more forcefully. Even through the glass, she could see him heave a sigh. His shoulders rose, and his massive chest expanded under the tight jersey he wore. He dropped his head, looking at the floor. After a long moment, though, he got to his feet and stopped right behind the door.

“Are you Chris Dean?” she asked. “Because I talked to—”

“I'm closed for lunch,” he interrupted, his deep voice muffled by the door. “As my sign clearly indicates.”

She sent him her best smile of apology. “I'm sorry to bother you during your lunchtime, but you may be the only human being on this Earth who can help me. And it will only take a minute, I promise. Could you please let me in?”

Sadly, he appeared unmoved by both her smile and her words. She, on the other hand, was experiencing quite a bit of movement, specifically in her racing heart. Maybe her nether regions too.

This man . . . fuck, he was glorious. The white cycling jersey he wore was soaked with sweat. It clung to him, revealing every ripple of tight flesh on his chest and abs. And even though she had come to his shop in pursuit of another man, she still found herself gazing at that muscled expanse a bit too long.

I may be pursuing another guy, but I'm not dead
, she reassured herself
. It's perfectly normal to admire a perfect physical specimen when he's standing inches away from you. Especially when he looks like the last survivor from a race of giants.

He stared through the glass, his blue eyes assessing her with weary cynicism. She waved and smiled wider. He blinked. Then his eyes flicked past her to her SUV, parked just a few feet away. The tags she hadn't yet removed from her bike were clearly visible through the back window.

His brows rose. “Your bike is brand-new. Not sure you really need repairs at this point.”

“Please.” She didn't want to explain her mission through a pane of glass. The barrier made it much easier to refuse her. “I know your fr—”

“Come back later.” He tossed those words over his shoulder as he turned away and walked into the back room.

Well, shit. It appeared various people
could
say no to the Drama Queen when she was right in front of them, begging for help.

No matter. She could wait him out. Dramatic she might be; a quitter she was not.

* * *

Shit. That lady was still standing out there in the broiling July sun, even though he had a full half hour left of his lunch break.

Chris took another bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, willing himself not to peek again around the half-open workroom door that led to the front shop. If he did, he knew what he'd see. Her, waiting outside the shop in the brutal heat. Just as she had been for a few minutes now.

He didn't want to feel guilty. He
wouldn't
feel guilty, dammit.

Most small business owners he knew didn't take two-hour lunches. He understood that those lunches posed an inconvenience to potential customers. But business was slow enough during the midday heat that he could justify the hour-long rides he took. And after sixty minutes in the saddle, he needed time to wash his hands, actually eat his lunch, and take a quick shower.

More importantly, the daily rides eased the grinding anxiety that dogged him each day he walked into his shop and waited for customers who never came. The physical exhaustion of a hard hour on the bike allowed him to keep waiting and stay patient, even as he burned through his savings from the engineering job in Rockville.

Unable to stop himself, he glanced around the edge of the door again. Speaking of burning . . . how the hell was her nose already turning pink after less than ten minutes outside? Didn't she use sunscreen?

Serves her right
, he tried to convince himself.
She should have waited inside her car or gone somewhere else until I reopened.

Unfortunately, his brain had a quick counterargument.
Really? You want her to run her car in a parking lot for half an hour? And you think that's preferable to talking to her for a minute and finding out what she wants? No wonder your business is struggling.

He chanced another quick look her way, only to find her doing exactly the same thing she'd been doing for the past few minutes. Leaning against the rear bumper of her SUV. Shooing away the occasional mosquito or bee. Staring at the empty storefront. Generally looking pitiful.

At first, she'd faked that misery. God knew, he was no stranger to to dramatic women. He could spot a performance a mile away. And for a couple of minutes, as she'd fanned herself and occasionally shouted “Jesus, it's hot!” loudly enough to be heard all the way in the back of his shop, that was exactly what he'd witnessed. A performance, put on for his benefit. Or, more precisely, for hers—so he would take pity on her and give her what she wanted. His attention. Now.

But in the past few minutes, her feigned discomfort had become real. Somewhere around the time he'd heard a muffled “Ow!” and seen her slap at her arm, she'd stopped performing. Now, when she wasn't watching the storefront, she kept plucking her clothing away from her body and glaring up at the sun. She wasn't even bothering to yell about the heat anymore.

She also wasn't moving an inch. For that, she had his grudging respect.

It was fucking hot outside, as he knew from his ride. And standing in the fiery stillness of a July day, she was melting. Even from a distance, he could see perspiration dotting her face and neck. Her lime-green T-shirt was damp and sticking to her small breasts, while her sweat-spotted khaki shorts clung faithfully to the ample curves of her tummy, hips, and ass.

In the art history class he'd taken almost twenty years ago, he'd seen images of women like her. Well, not exactly. She was kind of a shrimp. But add another few inches to her stature, and she'd have made a perfect model for Rubens. Round and inviting. Exactly the sort of woman he'd always admired, though Brianna hadn't looked at all like—

No. He wouldn't think of his ex. She hadn't broken his heart, after all. Just damaged his pride, stripped him of his best friend, and spurred him to reevaluate his life. And during that reevaluation, he'd come to the conclusion that he didn't need another woman right now. Not while he was still moving past the last one. Not while he was still trying to build a business and a life for himself in a new community.

So he shouldn't consider this random, sweaty woman outside his shop anything more than a possible customer. Shouldn't look her way again until after his lunch break. But he couldn't help it. He was only a man, after all. A lonely, horny, increasingly guilt-ridden man. He
had
to look again.

This time, when he darted a glance the blonde's way, she'd grabbed a water bottle from her car and was uncapping it.

Good. Drink it
, he mentally ordered her.
You need the hydration in this heat
.

Instead, she raised the bottle above her head and poured it all over herself. The water streamed past her hair, down onto her shoulders, and all over the fabric covering her lovely tits.

Suddenly, he was witnessing a one-woman wet T-shirt contest. One that, as far as he was concerned, she'd have won even with hundreds of other entrants.

Fuck.
Fuck
. This needed to end. Before she made him forget every vow he'd ever made.

He put down his sandwich and strode to the front of the shop. Flipping the lock, he yanked open the door.

“You can come in, but make it quick.” His voice emerged like gravel from his throat, combined irritation and arousal lowering it to a near growl.

He held the door open for her, and she swept past him with a murmured thanks. No doubt her smile was also meant to convey gratitude. Instead, it exuded determination and the satisfaction of a job well done.

She'd give any man a run for his money. He could tell already.

Her shoulder brushed against his chest as she passed by, the dampness of it matching the state of his jersey. Heat arced between them in that tiny bit of contact, lifting the hairs at the back of his neck and tightening every muscle in his body.

Her eyes—a cloudy, gorgeous blue-gray, he now saw—flew up to his, the endearing smugness in them disappearing. Her lips parted, but she didn't say anything. He wanted to cover that soft mouth with his. Steal back the swift breath she'd just taken.

Pull yourself together, man. At least pretend to be a responsible business owner
.

“Sorry about the sweat.” He headed behind the counter, safely removed from the temptation to brush against her again. “I just got back from a ride. After lunch, I was going to hit the shower in the back.”

She walked right up to the other side of the counter and leaned forward, offering her small hand. “No problem. I'm Sarah Mayhew, a friend of Helen Murphy's. And you must be Chris, right?”

“Yeah.” The handshake sent more hormones flooding through him, so he kept it brief. “Helen sent you here?”

“I work part time for the Nice County Public Library, though not in the same branch as Helen. She thought you might be able to help me.” She looked around the shop. “Just out of curiosity, where are the bikes? Why don't you have any on display?”

He looked down at her, his suspicions confirmed. Outspoken. Maybe even bossy. For some reason, he'd known it from the moment she'd parked outside his shop. Unlike some men, he didn't consider that a turnoff. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. Which meant he needed to finish this conversation soon, before he was tempted to reconsider his hiatus from dating.