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I knew he was up to something!
“Chance…?”
“You have a surprise, so don’t blow it. Aubrey and I had to keep our mouths shut, and it wasn’t easy, so play nice and be a good sport.”
The rider pulls up close to where I’m standing on a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide. It’s a black and chrome motorcycle built for passenger comfort.
The guy dismounts and removes his helmet. His cocky grin says it all. If he was a lion, he couldn’t show any more teeth.
Dammit!
I knew I shouldn’t have worn the leather jacket.
Eleven
REINVENTING GREEN EGGS AND HAM
Tucker
It’s butt crack o’clock on Monday morning before dawn, and I’m back on the Harley-Davidson. I’m a man on a mission.
I’m going to come face-to-face with the spitfire in a few moments because the early bird needs to catch the worm for what I have planned.
Yesterday’s attempt to surprise Hamlet with an impromptu visit to her property produced no Hamlet.
I ended up meeting a whole team of chatty landscapers and the spitfire’s cousin, his beautiful wife, and baby boy.
It turns out my spitfire was out with another guy on a lunch run, and I had passed them on the road in the black, jacked-up pickup.
Chance was protective of his cousin, asking all the right questions, and I gave all the correct answers and asked some pertinent questions of my own.
I had no time for subtle.
We had a man-to-man talk, and Chance inquired about any man-whoring ways. I clarified where I stood and why. He did a lot of nodding and listening. I spilled more personal stuff than necessary to secure his help and possibly get me on the road to earning their trust.
Aubrey, it seemed, was all for me taking Ophelia on a date. I would go as far as to say her husband was a little giddy at the prospects—once he had interrogated me, of course.
I guess I passed their test. I left with the assurance the couple would keep my appearance a secret until I was ready to reveal myself.
I reach the end of her driveway, coming to a stop a few feet from Ophelia. She’s dressed in pajama pants with the Fainting Goat Ranch logo printed on them and lots of little goat heads and fluffy goat head slippers. The goat appears to be an artist’s interpretation of “Pixy/Bugger.” Aubrey calls the goat one name, and Chance calls it another.
She can’t see my smile, but it spreads like wildfire across my face.
Noticing she’s wearing my leather jacket, my inner caveman’s chest puffs out.
Dismounting the bike, I remove the helmet, place it on the seat, then run a hand through the hairs that have flopped over into my face, coaxing them back where they belong.
I add a little extra bounce in my swagger as I approach her. “Miss me, Hamlet?” I raise an eyebrow and point. “By the way… nice leather jacket.”
I decided then and there that Ophelia could keep the jacket. I like knowing she wants to wear what is mine—even though she will never admit it.
She looks down at her chest, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ like she didn’t realize it was the first item she thought to reach for this morning and put it on to keep herself warm.
Wait for it…
She glares at me. “I was going to return your jacket. I wasn’t going to keep it,” Ophelia snaps defensively.
She so likes me.
