Page 61 of A Shore Fling
He shuts off the engine and gets out, closing the door. “Hey.” His lips part in a long, slow smile that weakens my knees.
“Hey yourself.”
“You look nice,” he tells me.
I glance down at my light-pink shirt, tan shorts, and the new white sneakers that just got delivered this morning. “Thank you. Are you sure I don’t look too casual?” It’s not that I’m looking for another compliment. I’m just not used to dressing this way.
“Not at all. Look at me.” He turns in a slow circle. The black basketball shorts hug his ass, and the gray New England Patriots t-shirt shows off his broad shoulders. He looks drool-worthy to me. “Embrace the casual vibe like I do,” he says. “It’s part of being a beach bum.”
“I’m trying, but it’s an adjustment.”
He moves over to the back of his truck, opening the tailgate. “I had an idea for something fun we can do.” He lifts a tandem bicycle from the bed and sets it down in the driveway. “What do you think?”
I stare at the dark-blue bike, as if it might turn feral at any second. “I think I’ll maim us both if we get on that.”
He chuckles. “There’s no way that’ll happen. I’m going to ride in front and you’ll be in the back. All you’ll have to do is pedal and follow my commands.”
“That sounds deceivingly easy,” I say, giving him a skeptical look.
“It’ll be fun. Trust me.”
I cross my arms. “Do you know how many times in my life I’ve regretted agreeing when someone’s used that phrase?”
He tips my chin upward with a fingertip. “It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t me saying it. You must realize by now, I’d never let anything bad happen to you.”
I nod. “I do.”
“Great.” He flashes a quick glimpse of his straight teeth, and swings a leg over the bike. “Climb aboard.”
“Aye, aye, captain. Or should I say aye, aye, harbormaster?” I joke as I wiggle my rear end onto the seat. “Too bad you didn’t find one with a sidecar I could ride in.”
He laughs, and the deep sound surprises me. I’m still not used to seeing this lighter side of him, but I want to experience more of it.
He places his hands on the handlebars and looks over his shoulder. “Ready?”
“Define ready,” I mutter, adjusting my hands on the grips in front of me. “Am I steering too?”
I ask, panicking.
“No. Those are for you to use for balance. I’m controlling the steering and braking. Just start pedaling when I do. Stay loose, keep your eyes open, and don’t scream unless we’re about to crash.”
“How reassuring,” I deadpan.
He pushes off, and the bike lurches forward. I let out a surprised squeak as I scramble to catch the rhythm of his pedaling. It’s awkward for the first ten feet, but then the tires roll smoother, our legs sync up, and the breeze hits my face as we cruise down the street.
“See?” he calls out over his shoulder. “You’re a natural.”
“So you’ve said before… a natural disaster.”
“Forget I ever said that. I didn’t mean it.”
We coast past a row of beach cottages, some with chipped paint and sagging porches, others perfectly kept with flower boxes spilling over with color. The scent of ocean air mixes with someone grilling nearby, and for the first time in a while, I feel like a young kid again with no responsibilities and no reason to rush anywhere. He confidently steers us around a curve, and I hear his low chuckle.
“What?”
“Are you breathing?”
“Yeah, just cautiously.”
