Ready to Fall (4 page)

Something here wasn't adding up. Nothing she'd said about Ulysses implied that she loved the man or even found him uniquely fascinating. And a pretty, charming woman like Sarah should have no trouble finding someone to date. So why was she talking about the damn gym teacher like he was her only option?

Not your business
, he told himself.
Keep your mouth shut
.

But he had to know. “Why do you think he's your best shot? Don't you meet other guys at school or the library?”

With that question, the openness—the vulnerability—evident in every line of her face and body snapped shut. Suddenly, she was opaque. Guarded, even as she smiled brightly at him.

She spread her arms and lifted them high in a dramatic gesture. “We're fated mates, matched by the heavens,” she declared. “Like Romeo and Juliet, only older and more attractive. Hopefully, also more likely to die from natural causes.”

Her laugh, normally so joyful and effortless, sounded forced. And for the first time since she'd stepped foot in his shop earlier in the day, she was performing again.

What hadn't she been willing to say to him? Were her reasons for pursuing this man really so intimate? So deep-rooted that exposing them felt unsafe?

He couldn't blame her for keeping her thoughts to herself, of course. He'd spent his last months in Rockville with his vulnerabilities on view to everyone who knew him, and he'd certainly have hidden them if he'd had the choice. Hell, the desire for privacy was one of the main reasons he'd moved to Nice County, a place where no one but his family knew him. A place where his private pain hadn't already become public knowledge.

Still, he'd give a lot to know what had really driven her to his shop. What vulnerabilities had made her believe her future lay in the hands of one man, and one she didn't really seem to know that well?

Chris shook his head. Sarah had clearly rubbed off on him. He was overreacting. Reading things into her words and actions that probably didn't exist. He'd only met her earlier that day, after all. Why would he think he could already sense she was hiding something? Especially when years of living with Brianna hadn't helped him see through her lies?

He still didn't understand Sarah's sense of urgency when it came to her colleague. But if pursuing this guy would make her happy . . . so be it. It wasn't like Chris could offer her anything better than Ulysses. In fact, Chris couldn't—wouldn't—offer her anything at all. Not right now, and definitely not while she was in hot pursuit of someone else.

“Finish your burrito,” he told her. “If you want your man, it's time to get to work.”

E
xcept for the five minutes Chris had spent on the phone with his mom and younger sister, Sarah had been talking nonstop for at least twenty minutes. He hadn't said much in response, but she didn't seem offended. From what he could tell, she didn't require much in the way of audience participation.

“I figure there's about a fifty-fifty chance I'll die along that canal.” Tilting her head in thought, she drummed her fingers along the edge of the table. “If I do, please attend my funeral. Tell the crowd I died doing what I loved most—chasing after an eligible guy. Of course, I'll also have died doing what I hated most. Namely, riding an accursed form of transportation in sweaty clothes while fighting that bitch Mother Nature.”

Good thing she was hilarious. If she wasn't, he'd probably have donned his safety headphones about fifteen minutes ago.

She pointed an admonishing finger his way. “At the service, don't tell my dad you're the one who taught me to ride. He might blame you for my untimely demise, especially if he sees this shop. My guess? He'll assume you tampered with my bike. Largely because your front room looks like the hideout of a crazed loner.”

He bit back yet another grin and snuck a glance at her, marveling once again at how relaxed she seemed. As soon as he'd brought her back to his workroom, she'd boosted herself up onto one of his work benches and sat to watch him adjust her bike. Her natural, open smile had returned. And then she'd started talking. And talking. And talking.

For some reason, she looked completely comfortable up on that bench. Almost as if the two of them had spent pleasant evenings here dozens of times before.

To his surprise, he was enjoying himself too. More than he had in months. Maybe years.

It was all very odd. The sight and sound of her in this room—a place he'd used for solitude since first opening the shop—should bother him. Should make him regret bringing her here. And on some level, he
was
bothered. On some level, he
did
regret bringing her here.

Not because he wanted her gone. Because he didn't.

Hoping to distract himself from his troubled thoughts, he stood up and waved her over to his side. “I hope I just improved your odds of survival to sixty-forty by adjusting your bike a bit. Climb on.”

She eyed her new bicycle with trepidation, ass still firmly planted on his table. “Did it get bigger while you were working on it? Because it seems really, really tall right now.”

“All I did was make sure the seat was horizontal and lower it a bit.”

A lot, actually. How would kissing even work between her and a guy of his height? Not that he was planning to kiss her, of course. Or even fantasizing about doing so. It was just a matter of intellectual curiosity.

“You did something with the tires too.” She narrowed her eyes at the black rubber, as if expecting them to betray her in some fashion.

“I checked their pressure and made sure the store put them on properly. I adjusted the wheels and chain so they don't wobble. And I tightened a few loose bolts.” As he explained what he'd done, he pointed to each relevant bike part. “Everything's just about done. Once we find the right seat and handlebar height for you, we should be ready to start our lesson.”

Despite her nod, he didn't think she was actually listening to his list of adjustments. Anxiety had begun to glaze her eyes and tighten her hands into near fists.

“What about the gears and the brakes? Shouldn't you inspect those too?”

Even though the sight of her worry made him ache, he couldn't help it. He had to smile. “You don't have any gears,” he told her. “You bought a bike made for a particularly tall child. Or maybe a grandmother living in a small French village that doesn't allow cars. You don't even have hand brakes. To stop the bike, you just need to pedal backwards.”

“I may not have gears, but I have streamers.” She propped her fists on her hips and turned up her nose, the concern on her face disappearing. “
And
a basket.”

“For when the grandmother bikes to the corner bakery and needs somewhere to put her baguette.”

Her fake outrage collapsed, and she beamed at him. “I
love
baguettes. I think I want to become that elderly Frenchwoman. Except I'll walk to the store instead of riding. Or have someone carry me.”

The sight of that dazzling smile almost made him stagger. Even frowning and insulting his shop, she attracted him. But when she let loose with that grin, he had to fight the urge to grab her by her perky ponytail and pull her close. The thought of feeling that small, round body against his . . . God, his head nearly blew off his shoulders.

The woman's not paying you five hundred bucks to drool over her
, he reminded himself
. Be a professional
.
Or at the very least, don't let her see how you react to her.

He tapped a handlebar. “To be fair, elderly Frenchwomen probably wouldn't have sparkly streamers coming off of their handlebars. That's why I'm thinking you actually found a bike for tall children.”

She sighed. “I
am
short. Some of the tallest fourth graders at my school are about my height, and they like to call me Mini Mayhew. At least until I assign them cleanup at the end of each art class.”

“Cruel.”

“And I console myself by looming over the toddlers and preschoolers who come to the library for storytime. They ask me what I'm doing, and I tell them, ‘Nothing. Just pretending I'm a giant and you're the helpless villagers I'm about to squash into jelly.' When they run away shrieking, my friend Penny always lectures me. Says I'm a bad influence.”

He could just picture her bantering with those kids, pretending indignation as they teased her in return. No doubt children adored having her as their teacher or their librarian. Who wouldn't?

“Do you run the storytimes at Battlefield?” he asked.

She shook her head. “That's Penny's domain. I mostly deal with the circulation desk and shelving. Although I have trouble reaching some of the higher shelves, even with our rolling footstools. My conclusion: Our library was designed by an evil architect with a relentless grudge against short librarians like me.”

Without his permission, his hand reached over to give her a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Not short. Fun-sized. Now stop stalling and get on the goddamn bike. I have the kickstand down, so it's stable. No need to worry.”

Those lines around her mouth reappeared in an instant, but she swung a leg over the top of the bike. Or at least she tried to. Instead, her foot kicked the frame, and the bike clattered to the floor as she jumped out of the way.

“Consider that a warning shot,” she told the bike, her breath coming a little too fast.

“Don't pretend you did that on purpose.” He lifted the bike, setting it back on its wheels and nudging the kickstand into place with his foot.

“I can pretend whatever I want. For instance, I can pretend that this contraption isn't going to end up impaling some part of me before the night is over. Say,” she said, plastering a too-bright grin on her face, “did I ever tell you why I thought my bike was possessed when I was a kid?”

She was stalling. He knew why, too. For all her bluster, she was legitimately scared of riding a bike. And though he did want to know the reason for her fear, letting her drag this process out wasn't the best way to ease her anxiety.

“Tell me once you're on the bike. I swear I won't let you fall here in my shop.” He tried to put every ounce of confidence he had into his voice, knowing she needed it.

“That's a very limited guarantee. What about when I practice outside?” Her cloudy blue-gray eyes met his in a silent plea for reassurance.

Those eyes tugged at him, tempting him to vow that he'd never let her get hurt, on or off a bike. But he couldn't make that vow, for a variety of reasons. And he refused to lie to her.

“I can't promise you won't fall outside.” He hesitated. “You probably will at some point. But I'll do my best to stop you from hurting yourself. I'll make sure your helmet fits right and that you know what you're doing. I'm bringing along a first aid kit, too. Just in case.”

His candor seemed to steady her, which didn't surprise him. For all her drama, he didn't think she was the kind of woman who wanted smoke blown up her ass. Other than when he'd tried to pin her down on Ulysses's appeal, she'd spoken nothing but truths. Truths exaggerated to the point where they resembled lies, sometimes, but truths nevertheless.

He did need to redecorate—okay,
decorate
—his front room. She did fear bikes. And if he had time to comb through all of her exaggerations, he suspected he'd find more kernels of honesty in each one. Honesty she'd made easier to bear through humor and theatrics.

Sarah Mayhew had perfected one hell of a magic trick. She'd concealed an honest, generous, vulnerable woman in plain sight. So effectively that he suspected most people didn't even see her.

She took a deep breath. “Okay. Attempt number two.”

Fortunately, her foot didn't take out the bike this time. She swung a leg over the frame and stood behind the handlebars, straddling her bike. Then she edged her butt backward and searched for the seat. In vain, since she was going to have to raise herself to find it.

He took a firm grip on the frame, keeping it steady for her. After a few seconds of fruitless fumbling, she craned her neck to see where the seat was actually located.

“Um, Chris?” Her voice had become thready. Thin. “I think the seat is about six inches too high.”

Not a surprise she felt that way. Lots of people who didn't fear bikes often made the same complaint. But they didn't usually do so with incipient panic whitening their faces.

“Sarah, please give it a try.” He laid a hand on her arm, desperate to get her attention. “I know you'd prefer the seat to be lower. But if you can put your feet flat on the ground while you're sitting on the seat, it's too low. You'll have to bend your legs too much while you're riding. A seat that's too low can cause knee pain, and it makes the bike harder to pedal.”

The gentle touch worked. She turned to him instead of continuing to stare at the seat. And she didn't move away from his hand. In fact, she seemed to lean closer as she looked up at him. Worry still tightened her generous mouth, but the color began to return to her face.

“I don't want to be up too high.” Her eyes were locked onto his, pleading for his understanding. “I don't have a good sense of balance. I want to be able to put my feet down easily if I tip over. Otherwise, they'll have to scrape me off the bike trail with an industrial-sized spatula.”

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand from her warm skin and held her bike steady again. “Look, I've got the bike. It won't tip over. Just try. You can do it.”

She boosted herself up onto the seat. But when she looked down at the ground, all the color drained from her face once more. “My ass is about twenty times the size of this damn thing. Why the hell don't they make the seats more comfortable?”

“You're not really supposed to rest your full weight on it. You should be supporting yourself with your legs, at least in part.” He frowned. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

She swayed slightly on the seat. “This is really high.”

Her pupils had dilated, and she was trembling. Classic signs of anxiety.

He lifted one hand from the bike to touch her arm again. “Sarah, it's all r—”

“No!” she cried. “Put your hand back on the bike. It'll fall over!”

“Okay, okay,” he soothed. “See, my hands are both on the bike. Don't worry. Why don't you get down for a moment?”

She scrambled to the concrete floor, breathing heavily. But even after she was back on solid ground, she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she stared at the floor as her entire face turned pink.

At her clear embarrassment, something in his chest wrenched. Before he could think twice about it, he reached out again to cup her cheek and turn her face up to his.

“Sarah, are you—”

He stopped, reconsidering his words. If he'd just panicked in front of a near stranger, he wouldn't want that stranger pointing it out. He'd want a change of subject. Immediately.

So instead of asking her if she needed water or a break, he smoothed his thumb over her velvety cheek and changed the subject. “Why did you say your bicycle was possessed?”

Her breathing slowed, and her pupils began to contract to a normal size. “Partly because of a bad fall. Broke my arm and had to get a few stitches. And by a few, I mean forty-five.”

She held out her right arm, rotating it to show off her scar.

“Ouch.” He winced. “That'd do it.”

“But I said it even before the fall, to be honest. I've always had a certain tendency toward . . .” She hesitated. “Well, I can be a bit dramatic at times.”

He kept his tone bone-dry. “You don't say.”

“Smart-ass.” She gave him a playful smack on the arm, a small smile creeping across her expressive face. Normally, he would have found that smack annoying, but from her . . . The little sting reverberated up his arm and traveled straight to his cock.

Her tiny smile faded. “But I'm not exaggerating my fear, Chris. I don't think bikes are possessed anymore, but I really am scared of them. Which I know is pathetic, so feel free to make fun of me.”