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I lift my coffee cup. “You too.”
Outside, I blow on my coffee. It’s hot. I won’t have time to drink the whole cup before I have to go, but I’ll get most of it down.
As I sip my coffee, crispy brown leaves play across my boots, tumbling into heaps with newly fallen ruby- and saffron-hued leaves. A nearby store has its front door open, and I catch a whiff of pumpkin and apple spice, and it’s such a strong scent that I turn toward it, breathe in. It’s fall. It’s beautiful. Everything’s going to be okay.
On my way home, I stop at the Chevron on Bellevue Way to put gas in the bike, and as I pull off my helmet, I spot a very familiar Land Rover already parked at the gas pump on the far side of the station.
Luke.
I just can’t escape him.
He’s got his back to me, and he’s leaning against the side of his Land Rover, talking on his cell phone.
I keep an eye on him as I fill my tank with gas. Tall, tall, tall. So handsome. Look at that profile. Look at those legs. Oh, the things I could do—and would do—with him.
Finished, I turn off the pump, complete my transaction, and am just about to climb on my bike when he suddenly looks at me, making eye contact.
The corner of his mouth lifts, tilts. I smile back. He hangs up his phone. I walk his way.
“I should have known you’d have a bike,” he drawls.
“I’m that bad?” I flash.
His smile grows. “You’re that good.”
His smile sends me over the edge. I hate him, I tell myself, I hate that I find him so unbelievably sexy and that for him I think I’d gladly break each and every vow I’ve ever made.
His smile makes me want to take a swing at him.
Makes me want to get his skin on mine.
Makes me want to fight, or make love, or both.
“But be careful,” he adds. “Bikes are dangerous—”
“Thanks, Mom,” I interrupt dryly.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I give him a hard look so he knows I’m not messing around. I’m not a helpless woman, and I’m not a careless woman. “I’ve had a motorcycle since I was seventeen. I know the history of the American motorcycle, and I’m proud to be a bike owner.”
“Knowledge won’t keep you safe. I love bikes, too, but I don’t have kids, and you do. You’re a single mom.”
“That’s right, I am, and a good mom, too. And I could do without the guilt trip, thank you very much.”
He shrugs. “There was no guilt trip.”
“I love my daughter. I love her more than anything, and I’d never do anything that would hurt her.”
“You’re being defensive,” he answers bluntly. “And you’re taking my comment far too personally.”
“It is personal. You implied—”
“I didn’t imply anything,” he cuts me off ruthlessly. “I care about you. I’m looking out for you. End of story.”
Looking up at him, seeing the furious blue light in his eyes, I don’t think it’s the end of the story at all. There’s something else going on here, and it isn’t comfortable. It’s not platonic. And it scares the hell out of me.
I take a quick breath, struggle to calm myself. “I appreciate your concern, but you hardly know me—”
“Who broke your heart?” he demands. “Because someone did a number on you. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman, and yet you’re as jumpy as an alley cat.”
I don’t care for his insight or his analogy. “I didn’t have my heart broken.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“I’m not sure what you mean—”
“You’re a smart woman. Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.” Then Luke does the unthinkable. He steps toward me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me, really kisses me, holding my face between his hands and taking my mouth, tasting my mouth, tasting me.
It’s all so hot, too hot, too much everything I don’t know and can’t hope to control.
Even when I wanted Scott most, it never felt like this. Electric and wild, a leaping, whipping sensation in my blood, in my veins. I shiver and crave. This is the kind of desire that isn’t real, that doesn’t exist. Lips—bodies—don’t really feel like this.
Finally he lets me go, and I nearly sway on my feet.
“On second thought,” Luke says, a flare of fire in his eyes, “maybe you should be scared.”
His gas pump clicks off, and I climb back on my bike.
After tugging on my helmet, I start my bike up and pull out of the station, knowing Luke, Man as Big as a Mountain, is looking at me, and I feel even more wound up than I did before.
I’m starting to feel undone, and the kiss didn’t help. The kiss was good. The kiss was great. The kiss just makes me think more of the thoughts I don’t want to think.
It’s been so long since I felt like a woman, and there’s something about Luke that makes me feel very warm, and very soft, and very real. And the softer I feel, the more I want Luke’s strong arms around me.
It’s probably just a mile from the Chevron station to my home, but it feels like forever because the entire ride home I’m battling with myself. I hate him. I want him. I hate him. I crave him. I hate him. I need him.
I don’t need him.
At my house, I park the bike in the garage and sit there for several minutes without moving. I don’t need him, I repeat silently. But I do want him. Badly.
Chapter Seventeen
Back at home, I see I have just minutes before Eva returns from school. I quickly hang up my jacket, straighten one of Eva’s jackets in the closet, and find a rolled-up book in her coat pocket.
I pull out the book, and it’s what I expected: her beloved copy of How to Be the Most Popular Girl in Your School. And she’s got little sticky notes from my studio desk marking pages.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, I leaf through the book to read her latest sticky notes.
1. Be smart and funny.
Just because you will become popular doesn’t mean you have to be nasty to the not-so-popular girls.
2. Eat lunch with your friends.
Talk, don’t stay quiet. Make sure you get the conversation going.
3. Be pleasant when you meet new friends.
Ask questions about what they like, and just smile and listen to what they say to show you’re interested in them.
4. Never be a snob.
If you can afford to buy more expensive things than others can, don’t brag about what you have.
I stop reading as the back door opens and Eva walks into the kitchen, shrugging off her backpack and dropping it on the floor.
“Hi, Mom.”
I shut the book but can’t exactly hide it. “Hi, honey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Uh, reading.”
She comes to the counter, lifts the book, and then looks at me, puzzled. “You’re reading this?”
“I found it in your coat in the closet.”
She glances down at the book and then back at me. “How much did you read?”
“I was just, um, skimming.”
“What do you think of it?”
What do I think of it? Half a dozen thoughts come to mind, but none of them are nice. “It’s, um, interesting.”
She leans on the counter, looks up at me worriedly. “Does it make sense?”
“Uh, some of it.”
“Would you want to read more? We could read it together. You and me. Talk about this stuff if you want.”
I feel a weight lift off my chest, and I find myself smiling. Reaching out, I ruffle what’s left of her hair. “Sure. It’d be . . . fun . . . to read it together and then talk about it. Let’s do that.”
Hope shines in Eva’s eyes. “When? Tonight?”
I don’t see why not. There’s nothing else we’ll be doing later. “Okay.”
“Great.” Eva presses the book to her chest. Her smile grows bigger. “I’m going to go get my notebook, write down some more th
ings so I can be ready. Okay?”
“But what about your homework?”
She waves me off. “I already did it on the bus. It was easy.” She blows me a kiss. “Talk later.”
In the studio, Chris asks if I’ve heard from Freedom Bikes yet. I say no and, sitting at my desk, check for voice messages.
There have been a number of calls on my private line, including several from Tiana, who is arriving tomorrow in Seattle but won’t be free until Saturday, and one from Taylor, who has two things to say: First, it’s my turn to photocopy the class bulletin in the school office tomorrow noon and then assemble it with another mom; and two, Jemma will not be able to attend Eva’s party next weekend because Jemma is having a big party herself.
As I discard her message, I can’t help muttering, “Bitch.”
That evening, Eva doesn’t forget that I’ve promised to read her popularity book with her. As soon as dinner’s over, she whisks out the book along with her notebook and sits on the couch and calls me over.
“Ready?” she asks cheerfully.
Why do I feel as if I’m being dragged to a wedding gown fitting? Eva’s too happy, too excited about this book. I try to look enthusiastic as we start on page one.
“ ‘Popular girls aren’t born, they’re made,’ ” Eva reads aloud. “ ‘They’ve learned the secret to being popular, and now you will, too.’ ” She pauses, glances up at me. “Sounds good?”
“Oh. Very good.”
She taps the page. “Popularity isn’t something everyone just knows. It’s something we have to learn, it’s something we have to do.”
I smile, but I’m not so sure I like her plural pronoun “we.” We learn. We do. Shouldn’t she be saying I learn? I do?
