Ready to Fall (3 page)

“I don't sell bikes. I repair them. They're in the workroom.” He nodded toward the closed door behind the counter.

“Oh.” She surveyed the store, hands propped on her hips. “Have you considered some other form of decoration? Because . . .”

She cut herself off, biting her lower lip. He wanted to do it for her.

He also, however, wanted to know what she'd stopped herself from saying. “Because what?”

She caved immediately. “Because right now this looks like the sort of place where a serial killer chains you to the wall and makes you gnaw off your own arm to escape. And Helen assured me that you weren't into that kind of thing.”

He bit back a grudging smile and glanced around the small room. To his regret, she had a point. It sported bare white walls, white ceiling tiles studded with flickering fluorescent bulbs, and scuffed gray linoleum on the floor. To the casual observer, his shop was probably a goddamn depressing sight. Without more money, though, he couldn't do much about it.

Other people had also pointed out the lack of aesthetic appeal in his workroom. Family, friends, even the occasional customer. And when they had, he'd always bristled. Occasionally even snapped at them. For some reason, though, her comment caused him more amusement than discomfort. Maybe because the lack of pity in her voice stripped the sting from the words. Maybe because of the obvious good humor with which she said them. Or maybe because he was too busy trying to peel his eyes from her wet T-shirt to get offended by much of anything.

Still, since he didn't plan on discussing his financial situation with anyone—much less a woman he'd only met moments before—that particular subject was closed.

“I just opened a few months ago. Cut me some slack.” Time to steer this conversation back toward relevance. “So why did Helen send you here?”

She fished a folded printout from her huge purse and slapped it on the counter. “Take a look.”

He unfolded the paper and scanned the text. Apparently, the faculty and staff of Spring Ridge Elementary School had been invited to participate in a bike retreat as part of a new fitness initiative. That still didn't explain what she wanted from him, however.

“It's hot enough out there to cook us like rotisserie chickens.” Sarah tapped a finger on the flyer. “I'll be surprised if more than a dozen teachers survive the day. But at least our meat will be juicy and flavorful.”

Stifling another grin, he started making his way to the store entrance. Time to end this conversation and usher her out. “If you need a volunteer to give the bikes a tune-up or someone to sponsor the event, keep looking. I can't. Like I said, this is a pretty new shop. I have too many things to do and not a lot of extra money.”

Instead of following him to the door, she turned around and leaned her curvy butt against the counter. “That's not why I'm here. I need you to teach me how to ride a bike before that retreat.”

And there it was. The reason for all this. “You want to learn how to ride in three days?”

“Yes.” She smiled again, clearly pleased that he'd grasped the situation at long last.

“And you want me to teach you? Over the Fourth of July holiday? On top of my normal schedule here at the shop?”

Her smile began to fade. “Yes.”

Jesus, this had to be a joke. In what universe would Helen ever believe he'd give a grown woman riding lessons after work? Him, the man she often called the pissiest human being on the face of the Earth? Unless . . .

“Is Helen trying to set us up?” Unable to resist, he scanned Sarah's lush body one last time. “You can tell her she got my type right. But I'm not ready to date again. Sorry.”

Sarah remained silent for a long moment, taking what appeared to be a confused look down at herself. Then she raised her head and stared directly at him.

“This isn't a setup. This is—I mean, I am—a woman who needs to learn how to ride a bike in three days for the sake of true love.” As his mouth opened, she clarified, “Don't worry. True love for another man. Not you.”

“True love?” he repeated.

“True love,” she confirmed.

A bitter smile curved his mouth. “In that case, you're definitely wasting your time,” he told her. “Love is the absolute last reason I'd do anything for anyone right now.”

She floundered for a moment, clearly startled that playing that particular card hadn't worked for her. “You're really not willing to help me?”

He looked her in the eye. “Lady, it's almost one o'clock in the afternoon. I need to man my shop until seven, at which time I'll be tired. I'm not teaching a complete stranger to ride her bike at night after work, especially not for true love. You need to find someone else.”

Her eyes clouded with disappointment for a brief moment, but they quickly brightened again. She was martialing another argument in her head. He didn't know what it would entail, only that it would exist. And that it wouldn't sway him.

He wasn't getting involved in this. Wasn't getting involved with her in any way, especially if she was pursuing another man. Jesus, the irony would choke him.

Sarah planted both hands on his counter and leaned forward, her jaw set with resolve. “What about for money?” she asked. “I was going to pay you. A lot.”

At that, he froze. Irony might choke him, but it could also feed him. Could help keep the store open for a little while longer. “How much money are you talking about?”

“Five hundred,” she said. “For up to three nights of work. But you'll have to guarantee I'll be able to ride by the time of the retreat.”

Christ on a cracker
. That was a hell of a lot of money. Enough to keep his head above water for a couple of weeks or do a little more advertising. Maybe even make some improvements to the front of the store.

Other than a few late nights, he couldn't see any potential harm in the plan. Tempting though she was, she wanted another man. That was enough to ensure he'd leave her alone. More than enough.

After a minute, she nodded toward the paper. “Well? What do you say?”

He held out his hand for her to shake. When their fingers met for a second time, electricity zipped up his arm and diffused throughout his body, leaving behind a restless heat. Though her fingers were tiny compared to his, her grip was firm. And the way her smooth skin slid against his calluses made him glad he was standing behind a counter.

Her hand in his felt . . .

God, he didn't know. Like it somehow belonged there. Even though that feeling didn't make a lick of sense—and was, in fact, the absolute last thing he wanted.

He chose to ignore the warning sirens screaming in his brain. “We have a deal,” he told her. “When do you want to start your first lesson?”

A
fter a quick trip to the back room, Chris returned with a water bottle.

“Here.” He thrust it into Sarah's hand. “Drink this. It's hot out there.”

Surprised at the thoughtful gesture, she uncapped the bottle and took a long, cool sip. Oh, Lord, she'd needed that. Not just because of her time out in the sun, but also because even brief contact with Chris threatened to singe her eyebrows.

She had to admit it, if only to herself. Upon entering the shop, she'd deliberately brushed up against that broad chest, just for cheap thrills. It was totally worth it. He'd felt incredible. Firm. Strong. Like a ridged wall.

Jesus, the man was hot enough to melt a glacier. And she was far from an ice queen.

As she swallowed her water, she shot another quick glance his way. His bike shorts revealed every line of his thickly muscled thighs and his hand on the counter was large and calloused. He had shaggy blond hair streaked by the sun, a strong blade of a nose, and the shadow of a cleft in his chin. She could clearly see the shape of the sunglasses he must have worn during his ride. It was the one area where the grime of the road hadn't covered that handsome face.

Though his hands looked clean, he had grease under his fingernails. That evidence of his hard work didn't bother her. As she'd told her friends, she'd always found capable men attractive. And she'd forgotten all about the grease when his hand had encompassed hers in a strong grip, sending sparks zipping through her bloodstream.

Up close, he smelled amazing. Not dirty, just . . . sweaty. Like a man who'd just used his body hard, pushing it to its limits. Would he smell that way in bed too?

Enough
, she told herself.
You came here in pursuit of another man. Just because Chris Dean looks like the president of the Cranky Studs Bike Club doesn't mean you should let him distract you. Especially since he's precisely the sort of man who's dated and dumped you a dozen times. Make the arrangements for your lessons and leave.

She capped her bottle and got back to business. “How do you want me to prepare for the first lesson tonight?”

“Depends.” He ducked beneath the counter and emerged with a rag and a spray bottle of disinfectant. Giving the already clean counter a squirt, he began to wipe it down. “How much do you know about riding a bike? Are you just trying to get more comfortable, or are we starting from scratch?”

“Pretty much from scratch. My dad gave up teaching me after I became convinced my Strawberry Shortcake two-wheeler was possessed.”

“So you've always been like this,” he muttered under his breath.

She cast him a suspicious glance. “Like what?”

“Never mind.” He nudged the flyer on the counter. “Tell me more about the event. What do I need to know?”

“It's an all-day ride along the canal for faculty and staff at Spring Ridge. According to the e-mails I've seen, the path should be pretty flat. Doable even for a beginner.” She shook her head. “Though if Ulysses weren't going on the trip, I wouldn't go either.”

His brows rose. “Ulysses?”

“Yes, yes.” She waved a hand. “My friends have already covered that angle. Make all the jokes you want about Civil War generals or about how my friend Penny—short for Penelope—should be dating him instead of me.”

His lips pressed together as he unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smirk. “Ulysses is a fine name. Really. Not at all antiquated.”

She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, if he hadn't sent an e-mail yesterday to all Spring Ridge staff asking about the event, I'd certainly never have come here today for lessons.”

Realizing how rude that sounded, she backtracked. “Though I'm glad I did, of course. Your shop is certainly . . . charming.”

Even though she didn't speak her thoughts out loud, he still seemed to hear them.

“I'll buy a poster for the wall with twenty bucks of the money you're paying me,” he said. “But the rest has got to go toward rent and utilities. Starting a small business isn't cheap. The optics have to wait until I'm actually bringing in some money.”

“I understand.”
Don't say it. Don't say it don't say it don't say it
. “I just think any decorations would pay for themselves pretty quickly. More people might come to your bike shop if they could actually tell it
was
a bike shop, rather than a lair for the local fight club.”

Shit. She'd said it.

“I'm sorry,” she said with a sigh. “That's none of my business. It's yours. Literally.”

Luckily, he didn't seem offended. In fact, the corners of his mouth quirked for a second time. “No need to apologize. I don't mind you sharing your opinions, as long as you don't mind my ignoring them.”

“Seems fair.” More than fair, as a matter of fact. Given his initial grumpiness, she'd expected him to be much less tolerant of her snark. Then again, he'd already cut his lunch break short to talk to her
and
offered her water.

Helen was right. A sweet, funny man might very well lurk beneath Chris's crusty exterior. So what exactly had caused him to hide himself away?

The answer to that question didn't really matter to her, of course. She was just a naturally curious person. Nevertheless . . .

You need to call Helen this afternoon
, she thought.
Maybe she knows his story
.

He returned to the topic at hand. “So from what you're telling me, you only need to know the basics of cycling. How to get going, stay upright, and stop. Is that right?”

She nodded. “Yup.”

He finished wiping the countertop, and bent down to replace his cleaning supplies beneath the counter. “Should be doable. I need to be here until seven each night. Our lessons can start after that.”

“You're free all three nights?” Honestly, that seemed improbable. Despite what he'd said about taking a break from dating, surely a man as hot as Chris hooked up with women on a regular basis. “You didn't have other plans for the Fourth of July? A cookout with friends or . . . someone else?”

“Nope.” He stared at her, stone-faced once more.

Huh. Interesting.

She frowned. “What about dinner? Will you have time to eat before the lessons?”

“I'll figure something out.”

In other words: No, he wouldn't have time to eat.
Hmmmm.

His eyes scanned her from top to toe. “You need to bring protective gear tonight.”

She tried to picture the sort of equipment that could prevent injury if she went flying over her handlebars and onto the pavement. “Are we talking full-body armor?”

“A helmet. That's the most important thing.” He paused. “Those pretty blond curls won't protect your head if you fall. And you will.”

Without her permission, her hand reached up to touch her ponytail. He'd noticed her hair? And he thought it was pretty?

His gaze lowered to the counter between them, and he cleared his throat. “Make sure you have a helmet that fits right. It needs to be tight without causing you pain.”

“Will do.”

“And if I were you, I'd wear a long-sleeved shirt and full-length pants.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Won't that make me all sweaty?”

“Covering your skin will help protect it from road rash.” He shrugged and looked up again. “You'll sweat no matter what you wear, anyway. So will I. It's brutal out there.”

She wrinkled her nose even harder. “Sweating? Do I have to? My body loses vital nutrients that way, you know. Like . . . I don't know. Electrolytes?”

His face totally transformed when he threw back his head and laughed. The lines of cynicism and stress melted away, and his blue eyes sparkled. He had dimples in his cheeks, deep ones.
Dimples
, for God's sake. What straight woman could resist a good-looking man sporting those?

“That reminds me,” he said with a smile. “Bring a good amount of water. A snack too, in case you get hungry.”

“Anything else?” She looked up at him, relishing the amusement still lingering on his handsome face.

Even as she watched, he got himself under control. By the time he spoke again, he'd returned to the distant, taciturn man she'd met at the beginning of their conversation.

“Maybe elbow or knee pads. Depends how much money you want to spend on a one-day event.” He walked to the door and opened it for her. “You can call this afternoon if you have any other questions. I need to take a shower and reopen my store.”

Even Sarah knew when not to push her luck. Sometimes, at least. So she bit her tongue and headed out the door without protest, even as she burned to ask Chris two last questions. Ones her brain should never have formulated, given her determination to pursue Ulysses.

* * *

Sarah breezed back into his shop at two minutes until seven, holding two paper bags in her hand. She flipped the sign on the door to Closed and threw the deadbolt.

“Burrito for you,” she said, plopping one of the bags on the counter in front of Chris. “Burrito for me.” She stood on the customer side of the counter and opened up her own bag.

Chris stared at the brown paper sack, not knowing what to say. Was this a pity burrito, bought because his business was obviously in trouble? Or simply the gesture of a woman who hid her innate kindness under lots of bluster?

He hadn't sensed any pity from Sarah earlier that day. Instead, she'd busted his chops, which he kind of liked. Too many people had spent the past year treating him like porcelain. They handled him carefully and studied him for cracks. They worried about his durability.

Sarah didn't do that. Any of it. Which was probably why he already liked her so much.

Not a pity burrito, then. He nodded in her direction. “Thanks.”

“I was concerned you wouldn't have a chance to eat. Didn't want you to keel over and crush me beneath your hulking form.” She shot him a cheerful grin. “Wasn't sure what you wanted, so I just got chicken. You don't look like a vegetarian.”

“Chicken's great.” He unwrapped the foil from around the burrito. “I'll pay you back.”

“No worries. After shelling out five hundred dollars for bike lessons, dinner is nothing.”

Letting out a long breath, Chris ran a hand through his hair. It pained him to say it, but... “I've been thinking. Five hundred is too much. I don't need—”

“It's fine.” She took a sip of her soda. “I'm the one who offered that amount, and it's worth it to me. I don't know where else I would've gone to get a bike lesson from an expert in the next three days. Most of my friends aren't what you'd call outdoorsy. As far as we're concerned, nature's best seen from behind a window in a climate-controlled space. Preferably wearing pajamas, but that's not always possible. Unfortunately.”

He swallowed a bite, surveying his student. Though he found her short, curvy frame sexy, he had to admit she didn't resemble most athletes he'd seen. He didn't know how comfortable she'd look on a bike, but he already knew how she'd look spread across his bed. Ripe. Soft. Fucking hot.

“Tell me more about the guy you want,” he said. “Ulysses, right?”

He didn't want to hear, but he had to ask. To remind himself why he should keep his distance, of course. Also because he simply needed to know. What kind of man inspired such passionate commitment from a woman like Sarah? What about Ulysses had driven her to Chris's shop and made her willing—no,
determined
—to learn how to ride a bike in three days? Especially when she feared bicycles, loathed nature, and hated losing electrolytes?

God knew Chris had never inspired that kind of devotion, despite his total lack of an asinine name.

Sarah played with a few bits of shredded cheese that had fallen out of her burrito. “Ulysses is our school's gym teacher.”

When he reached for another piece of his own burrito, he realized he'd finished it all. A split second later, Sarah reached down and pulled another foil-wrapped bundle from her paper bag. She set it in front of him without a word. Then she continued her story before he could figure out how to thank her again.

“He started last fall. At first, I figured he was gay. Because what are the chances of finding a good-looking, single, straight guy in his thirties teaching at an elementary school?”

His brow furrowed as he unwrapped his second burrito. “I don't really—”

“Not good. Trust me. I've been burned before.” She scowled. “Our music teacher, for example, fooled me with his love of NASCAR.”

Her expression softened. “Brant and Roderick make a great couple, though. Their wedding was lovely. And I really don't give a shit about NASCAR, so I guess it's for the best.”

“Ulysses,” he reminded her.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for keeping me on track.” She smiled. “Anyway, I figured Ulysses was gay until he dated the secretary in the front office. Then I realized he was straight. Or at least bisexual, which is close enough for me. But even before I knew that, I enjoyed talking with him. He's . . . nice. Cheerful. Energetic.”

Sounds like a golden retriever
, he thought spitefully.

Her lips pursed. Then she spoke in a near whisper, as if she were talking to herself. “He's my best shot at something permanent.”