Page 25 of Coffee Shop Girl
She eyed me, then steered down the frozen fruit aisle, setting a smoothie mix in the cart.
“Triumph Bonneville.”
“A cruising man.” I tsked. “I like it. Bonnevilles are smooth. My dad rode one before—”
Her eyebrow perked up. “Before?”
“Before,” I said with finality. She wasn’t diving into her ghosts, so I wouldn’t dive into mine. “How long have you been riding?”
“Eight months. But I first tried it when he bought it almost a year ago.” She gave a tiny smile. “I love it.”
“He bought it before he died, I’m assuming?”
Her eyes tapered, but no other change registered in her face. “Yes.”
“I overheard your customer the other day.” No reason for her to label me a stalker this early. Though it seemed I wasn’t far off. “I’m sorry you lost him.”
She softened almost entirely, like melted butter. Then she snapped back together and eyed me with her usual suspicion. Felt better to be on firmer ground, although I liked that gentle edge.
“How often do you ride it?” I asked, steering back to safe territory. We pushed through the freezer aisle again. She kept half her attention on the freezer doors as I grabbed a bag of frozen peas and kale.
“I used to ride it every day. I—” She cut herself off. I acted like I didn’t notice and grabbed frozen blueberries. When she slipped behind me, her arm barely touched my back. I suppressed a shudder.
“When did you get your license?”
“This is more like an interrogation,” she said with a wry smile, tossing a pint of vanilla into the cart. She kept moving.
Intriguing girl.
She wasn’t shopping for her father, so who was she hiding?
Doesn’t matter, Mav,I reminded myself.She’s giving you internet and a place to turn around so you can get out of here and start over.
Because I didn’t want to be CRO for Mallory.
I wanted to talk to Bethany.
“I have an Indian Scout that I drive to work every day,” I said to distract myself from the silky threads of her hair falling across her neck.
“Oh?” Her voice lifted, and the genuine excitement that slipped into her smile hit me like a brick in the chest. “Not a Harley fan? That wins you points.”
I didn’t tell her I wanted all the points.
“How long have you had it?” she asked.
While I spoke about getting my first dirt bike at fourteen and stretched the easy topic out for a while, she relaxed. Navigating every aisle slowly, she opened up like a hesitant flower. I kept the chatter easy. Nonchalant.
“Never tried the Harley for more than a few hours at a time,” she admitted. “Dad loved them but never bought one. Too rattly for me. I have a couple of trips mapped out, though. Four- and five-day rides through the mountains, mostly on dirt roads.”
“Terrible idea for a Triumph.”
She grinned. “I know. I’d rent a hybrid, or borrow from a friend.”
“Harleys are loud and not ideal for long trips, depending on how you like the bike to handle. But as long as you’re in the open air?” I shrugged, leaving the rest implied.
She grinned, her face illuminated. Picturing her riding on a motorcycle next to me did funny things to my stomach, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake after all. Of all the businesses to save, why did I pick hers?
I already knew the answer to that.
