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“Either really. Wood can nick and scratch, but tile can always crack, and grout’s a pain to clean.”
“Where’d you learn to rebuild bikes?” Mel asked, not yet finished with learning all the things about him she’d longed to know. He knew far more about her than she did of him.
A soft smile claimed Blake’s lips as he stared past her, as if remembering. “That would be Big John.”
“Big John?” Mel raised her brow.
“He was a burly thirty-something that took a chance on a quiet teenage boy he knew nothing about. He gave me a job in his shop and taught me everything, starting with the basics. Things like checking tire pressure, changing the oil, how to oil the cables. How to change the brakes, filters, and drive chain. Sometimes, Grant came and helped out, and he taught him too. But Grant was a bit more unruly than me, always chasing girls and sometimes getting into trouble. Me? I just wanted an outlet, something to do with my time and my life that made me feel useful, needed. Plus, I wanted the money. I saved from the time I was fourteen because I knew I only had four years until I was out. Once I turned eighteen, I’d have nowhere to go and no one to rely on. And Grant would shortly follow. Luckily, when the time came, Big J let me sleep in his shop for a while until I could manage to live in such an expensive city on my own. He even turned a blind eye to my doing side work. After a while, my business took off.” Blake shrugged. “Before I knew it, I had enough work and clients of my own to fill my days.”
“And B’s Bikes was born,” Mel said softly.
Blake reached out and playfully tugged on a lock of her hair. “Were you hoping for something more exciting?”
“No.” Mel shook her head. “You once told me I don’t give myself enough credit, but you’re Blake Britton,” she said, nudging him, “and you don’t give yourself enough either. You’ve done so much with so little. It’s a lot more than most can say. Even if you hadn’t, it’s your story, so I think it’s pretty perfect, actually,” she said, mustering her courage.
Blake reached out and clasped her hand in his. “I think you’re pretty perfect.”
Mel let out a half-laugh, her nerves rioting in her chest like a swarm of butterflies. When Blake looked at her like that, it felt a whole lot like flirting, and she found herself wanting to believe in fairytales and true love. The only problem was, she was pretty sure they didn’t exist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MEL
By the time they left the store, brimming with ideas for Mel’s future kitchen, bathrooms, and a pocketful of paint color cards, Mel’s rumbling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since noon. Glancing at her watch, she noted it was now past seven-thirty.
“Hungry?” Blake laughed as her stomach grumbled again.
“Just a little.” Mel pressed a hand to her stomach.
“Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”
Ten minutes later, Blake parked just outside of town. They walked the streets, slowly, taking their time, which suited Mel just fine. The evening couldn’t last forever, but she was enjoying her time out. How long had it been since she’d had a night out without the kids? Even though some might not find hardware stores to be exciting evening entertainment, Mel could’ve gone anywhere with Blake and enjoyed herself. She didn’t need a five-course meal, an exclusive club, or conversation over twenty-dollar drinks. So when she heard the boisterous laughter and the blare of a band playing music in the streets, Mel followed the sound.
One block away, vendors lined streets strung with twinkle lights. Food trucks, craft booths, and local entrepreneurs hocked their wares while a band played in the center of a makeshift stage.
“Here,” Mel said, watching the droves of people drift from beneath the canopy of the vendor’s tents. “Let’s eat here.”
Blake paused and turned to look at her, hesitating. “Are you sure? I thought we’d go somewhere nice.”
“No. This is perfect. Come on,” Mel said, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the crowd.
Ten minutes later, they got sidetracked by the entertainment. Mel tapped her foot to the beat of the music, standing on the outskirts of a dancefloor with a growing crowd of people moving to whatever beat the band fed them.
“What’s the occasion or event?” Mel asked a woman standing beside her, gesturing around them.
“The annual Highland Park Spring Fest. We have it every year.”
Mel nodded, then turned to Blake and beckoned him with a curled finger.
His eyes widened, and he shook his head. “No dancing.”
Mel laughed and reached out, tugging his hand and pulling him onto the dancefloor. “Come on, live a little,” she yelled over the blare of the music, but Blake stood immobile, both fear and amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I don’t usually dance,” he said.
She rolled her eyes, then grinned at his discomfort. It was maybe the only time, other than that first day with her kids, she’d seen him look out of sorts. “Chicken,” she challenged.
And so, with a bark of laughter, he shook his head and joined her on the dancefloor. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
