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“All right, foot on, and go.”
She sets her foot to the pedal and I let go—after which, she and the bicycle promptly begin to fall over.
Instinct kicks in and I move—snatching her around the waist, keeping her upright.
She squeaks. Her eyes squeeze closed, her hands grabble at my chest, balling two fistfuls of my shirt. Her face presses into me, and though there’s a thin cotton tee between us, I feel the warmth of her breath on my skin.
The lavender bike falls between us, tires and tubes hitting and bouncing against our bodies.
“I am not afraid of a bike,” she says into my chest, her words making the skin beneath my shirt tingle with warmth.
“You didn’t even pedal.” I realize my arm is still firmly around her. She’s standing. The bike is down. But my arm is still in place, locked around her, keeping her upright.
Because of instinct.
That’s all.
I could let go if I wanted to.
And for the record—I do want to. And I will. Soon.
“It’s like you’ve never sat on a bike before!” I say, dropping my arm from around her now that she’s sturdy on her feet.
Meredith releases my shirt and adjusts the collar of her denim jacket. “That’s because I haven’t.” She scoops her hair behind one ear. Small glass spheres shine from her eyes. “I am not afraid to learn though.” She pulls in a breath, her chest puffing with the words. Then she stares at my chest, my shirt wrinkled from her hold. Her brows knit and she reaches out. “Sorry,” she says, as she smooths out the wrinkles. “Oh!” She laughs with the contact. “Sorry. You’re just so, ah, so—” she nods a little. “Firm? Is that the right word? Fit?”
I shake my head with her nonsense. “You don’t know how to ride a bike? How old are you?”
Her eyes—a whole lot like the blue sky outside—lift to meet mine. Unapologetically, she answers. “I am twenty-three. And no, I do not.”
I groan—I shouldn’t moan at a customer, but I do. I can’t help it. “Did your parents not love you?” I say, wishing I could take the words back before she has time to register them. I don’t mean to be so callous. I have a dad I see once a year. He never played catch with me, never took me camping, never took me to a baseball game. And he didn’t teach me to ride a bike. I wouldn’t appreciate someone asking me that question—even though my mother loves me profoundly. She has four sons and I’m pretty sure I’m her favorite. Why wouldn’t I be? Still, lovingparents, as in the duo, a mom anddad,is not exactly a happy topic for me. I’m a jerk to assume it is for her, to have asked that question.
But Meredith doesn’t look offended. “My parents loved me dearly. Like precious cargo.”
“Oh-kay,” I say, trying to decide if I should put too much stock in the wordloved—past tense. But then, why would I? I don’t know this person. We aren’t friends. At this point, I’m merely assuming.
She sighs and adds, “Wrapped in bubble wrap.”
“Excuse me?” I’m not sure this girl is all there. She may be one link short of a bike chain.
“Thanks for catching me.”
I dip my head to see her better and coconut wafts upward, assaulting my senses. “Ah, you’re welcome.”
“I’ll take it,” she says, staring at the bike with a grin.
“But you fell over.” I take one step back—coconut is messing with my sanity. “You can’t ride it.”
“I can learn.”
“It’s three hundred dollars.” Granted, it is one of our cheaper bikes. But still, the girl can’t even stay upright on it.
“I read the price tag. I can’t ride a bike, but I can read.” Her eyes twinkle. Was that a joke? I think she’s kidding around.
“Sure. Okay.” Why am I arguing with a sale? That makes no sense. What business is it of mine if this girl wants to buy a bike she’ll never ride? Maybe it’ll become a costly lawn ornament.Oof, I hate that idea. “You can’t just leave it outside. It’ll rust. It needs proper storage.”
“Thanks. I’ll make sure it sleeps in the garage.”
“Who’s going to teach you?” I say, biting my tongue before I can get outbecause your weird cryptic way of talking is making me think you don’t have parents.I realize my mouth is still open—I didn’t say the words, but it’s clear I’m not done talking. Only, I am. Sort of.
