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Finally, the diesel-belching truck in front of me shuddered forward. I flipped my visor down against the smoke and eased around the death trap when his flashers went on again. A horn behind me had me opening up my throttle to m
ake tracks. The wind off the water sliced through my leathers. Pretty soon, it would be time to put my bike away for the winter.
I’d picked up a beater at auction for the off-season. No way was I driving my convertible Lucille in the sleet and salt-heavy months of Central New York.
I eased around the bend and took a side street shortcut to get out of the increasing truck situation. The more picturesque gold and burnt orange array of trees replaced stores as I hit Lake Street. Sun glinted off the water, reminding me why I’d settled here. Day-trippers were clogging up the shoulders of the road, eager to park and look out on Crescent Lake.
The mansions and foliage were a good stopgap for snacks and a little shopping on their way to the mountains for even more views, but I didn’t mind so much. It kept the town alive.
I’d lived in plenty of smaller towns on their way to seedy and rundown. Drug dens and meth labs usually followed pretty quickly thereafter. I much preferred the quaint aspect of the Cove, even if I had to slap a smile on my face more than I was comfortable with.
It was better for business and why I usually left customer service to Gage whenever I could help it. He was the charming one of our unit—well, at least usually. Now and then, he pulled out his inner growl and reminded people how he’d dominated back in his racing days.
About ten minutes later, I pulled off the side of the road to check my maps app on my phone. I was definitely close to the burbs, complete with little cul-de-sacs and driveways crammed with SUVs. Some still had lakefront views, but for the most part, this was a maze of endlessly circular streets with an army of high-end minivans marching along at exactly fifteen miles per hour. Safe blues and silvers with the occasional pop of sassy burgundy seemed to be the color palette of choice.
Holy boring. My skin itched to turn around and get out of there. Most seemed to be coming and going with moms, and a few dads, in errands mode.
“Need some help?”
I flipped up the visor on my helmet. “Sorry?”
The cherubic woman in one of the minivans I’d been careful to avoid gave me a dimpled smile. An improbably perfect head of blond ringlets spiraled around her face. Wig? Extensions? Curling iron influencer on Facebook? “Need some help? It can get a little confusing in here. A lot of the roads have the same name with east or west tacked on. Super original, I know.”
“Right.” I unearthed the sticky note. “You probably don’t—”
“Oh, honey, I know everyone here. I’m the head of the HOA.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded terrifying. “Okay. I’m looking for the Olsen house on Elm.”
“Oh, Kimberly. Yes.” Her voice went a little sly. “She’s got that handsome handyman working on her fence.” She fanned her face. “All the girls have been making excuses to go over and watch him dig the post thingies. Then he uses this handheld mixer thing to make cement. I’ve never seen muscles like that outside of watching The Bachelor. My husband isn’t anything to sneeze at, truth be told, but nothing like that.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m sure he’s enjoying the attention.”
“Oh, do you know Lucky? Of course you do, you look like…”
I tightened my hold on the handles of my bike. “I look like…”
“Um, well, you look like the kind of woman who would go out with a man like him.”
Being insulted took too much energy, but it certainly threatened. Lucky and I didn’t fit in any shape or form. He was the Jason Momoa sized key to my non-standard-sized lock.
Then again, with Lucky, you’d probably need an expandable one if he was built to scale all over.
I huffed out a breath. Already I was experiencing suburbia-induced psychosis.
“He’s working on my house next.” Why I felt the need to explain, I had no clue. I’d been learning that some sugar was easier than the vinegar that flowed through my veins on most days. I pasted on a smile—as much as I could with the foam insides of my helmet pressing on my face. “So, you know where the house is?”
“Why don’t I just drive there and you can follow?”
God save me from nosy neighbors.
“Oh, I’m Bethany. You are?”
Of course, she was a Bethany. “Tish.”
“Well, Tish, let’s get you over to Kim’s house. She’ll just die.” Her voice lowered and she peered over the window to scan the length of me. “Are those leather pants?”
I lifted my boot onto the foot peg and revved the engine. Maybe this wasn’t exactly the best idea. I glanced around at people craning their necks to check us out. I was going to be talked about during dinner tonight for sure. “Leather from top to bottom, Bethany.”
