Page 14 of Second Chance Spring in Paradise

“I can do better than tell you. I can show you.”

“Hey, that’s a writer’s line—show don’t tell. It means . . .” She laughs. “Well, it’s a good thing.”

I smile back. “Let’s do it then.” I push my plate away, pull my wallet from my back pocket, and drop a wad of cash on the table, more than enough to cover our dinner. Then I grab Tessa’s hand.

I slide out of my seat, pulling Tessa with me. She laughs again, as I lead her out of The Garden of Eatin’. I have no idea where I’m taking her or why I’m suddenly so determined to convince her to stay in Paradise, but I’ll figure it out as I go.

What I do know is that, whatever this ride with Tessa is, I want it to last longer than eight seconds.

Chapter 7

Tessa

Rowdy’s fingers stay curled lightly around mine until we’re out the door, back in the parking lot, standing in the same spot where he touched my hand before. I feel the same disappointment I did then when he lets my fingers drop again.

I shiver and slip on my cardigan while he looks around like he’s considering what to show me first. Then a grin slides across his face. “How do you like amazing sunsets over large bodies of water?”

“I’m in favor.” I give him a casual shrug. "I’ve seen some pretty amazing sunsets over a little body of water called the Pacific Ocean. I usually watch the sun do its thing at Hermosa Beach, a few blocks from my apartment.”

Rowdy’s smile falters, and I almost regret pulling the California card on him. But he recovers quickly and grabs my hand again. “I’ll see your smoggy LA view and raise you a clear, blue Smuk Lake sunset.”

He leads me toward the parking lot where I spot a classic Harley—no, wait… it’s an Indian. Even better. There are a lot of cars in the lot, but if I’ve pegged Rowdy right, he’s a motorcycle man, not a four-door-sedan guy. And if I’m right, I may be about to live my best life.

Some girls dream of riding into the sunset on the back of a horse with their arms wrapped around a cowboy.

Swap the horse for a motorcycle, and you’ve got my dream.

When we stop at the Indian, I let out a happy squeal. “This is yours? I knew it!”

“You like motorcycles?” Rowdy gives me a look of happy surprise.

“Motorcycles are fine.” I circle the bike, tracing my fingers along the chrome handlebars and handstitched leather seats. Rowdy’s eyes follow me the entire way and heat travels through every part of my body. I stop and raise an eyebrow. “But this isn’t some regular motorcycle. This is a 2016 Jack Daniel’s Limited Edition 150thAnniversary Indian.”

Now it’s Rowdy’s turn to raise his eyebrows. His jaw hangs slightly open, and I smile at the surprise written all over his face.

“Did you buy it new?”

He nods. “With my winnings from the Calgary Stampede that year.”

“You gonna take me for a ride?” I’m already climbing on the back before I finish asking the question.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Rowdy pulls a helmet from the side storage and hands it to me before taking out a second one from the other side. “I don’t have extra leathers,” he says while slipping out of his leather jacket, which I notice for the first time has the Indian logo on it. He hands it to me, and I don’t even think about refusing.

I slip my arm through the butter-soft sleeve while he swings his leg over the seat and sits in front of me. He starts the engine, and my whole body vibrates with the same excitement that the bike does. There’s a sissy bar I could hold on to, but I’d rather hold on to Rowdy.

At first, I hold on to his hips, remembering how his bare waist tapered into his jeans at the spring. After he picks up speed, I embrace the moment—and my fantasy—and slide my arms around his waist and lean into his back.

We head west as the sun begins its slow dip toward the horizon. I’d forgotten how late it stays light this far north. It’s after eight o’clock, and the sun is just barely beginning its descent, bathing the surrounding hills in a deep yellow.

Rowdy takes a corner, rounding the lake, and I hold him tighter as we lean. He turns right on a gravel road, and we head up a house-dotted hill. The higher we climb, the more cold air nips at me, and I tuck my chin into Rowdy’s jacket. It smells of leather and something else. Maybe juniper or sage or one of the other scrub brushes that dot the hills circling Smuk Lake. Anywhere else these hills would be considered mountains, but not here on the edge of the Rockies. A person only has to drive a few miles out of Paradise Valley to be surrounded by real, pine-tree-covered mountains.

I appreciate Rowdy taking me to see the sunset, but I doubt he’ll be able to give me a better view than what I have at Aunt D’s. The enjoyable part of this evening is not the view, but the ride. Rowdy’s confidence and carefulness on the motorcycle gives me a sense of security I didn’t know I’d been missing. Holding onto him with my face buried in his back, trusting him to take us wherever we’re going, makes me feel safe. Like maybe there are still men who can be trusted.

We climb higher, and mostly my focus is on Rowdy. I love being on the back of his bike, but between the helmet and my position, my view is pretty limited. But then a house catches my eye. Its turquoise color is hard to miss, but there’s something else about it. A feeling of déjà vu sweeps over me as we pass it. I know I’ve never been there, but there’s something so familiar about it. Turning around as far as I can without falling off the bike, I take in every detail of the bright, one-level house.

The other houses on this mountain are log cabins, A-frames, mini-mansions, or tract homes. Except for its color, the turquoise house looks like the Danish-inspired houses in Little Copenhagen. It’s a little bigger, but it has that hygge vibe that made the Little Copenhagen what it used to be, and I make a mental note to ask Rowdy about it.

We’re almost at the top of the hill when he pulls over and parks. I climb off the bike, pull off my helmet, and shake out my hair. Then I see the unobstructed view of the entire lake and the valley that surrounds it. The usually bright blue lake is a mirror, reflecting the sky’s spectrum of deep oranges and reds. The surrounding hills are an inky black, like they’ve been cut out of construction paper to create a silhouette dividing the water from the horizon. Pink clouds stretch soft and wispy across the sky, so real and so close I want to run my hand across them.

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