Page 36 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
“It’s totally nofair if I’m doing all the work,” Epic whined from behind me.
“You’re not.”
“I am. My thighs are killing me. We’ll never get back at this rate.”
“I’m doing all the work here,” I shouted. “Do you even have your feet on the peddles?”
I glanced back, and of course, he didn’t. Cheeky bastard.
Renting a tandem bicycle had been all his idea. The last time I’d ridden a bike had been in a spin class years before. I thought I was acquitting myself admirably until I realized we’d been out only half of our rental time. By then, I was ready to abandon the thing on the side of the road.
“This was your idea,” I reminded him.
“You went along with it.”
“Because I like your smile,” I admitted. He didn’t say anything, and at that point I knew I was the only one peddling. Had he abandoned ship?
When I glanced back, it was to see him grinning softly. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead beneath the tragically uncool protuberance of his bike helmet.
“What do you say we walk this bad idea back to the rental place and never tell anyone we did it?” I asked.
“No.” He started pumping again. “At least let’s ride back.”
“Okay, but no more slacking.”
He still slacked, but it was okay. We dropped the bike off in plenty of time and continued along the beach for a while, letting the breeze dry our sweaty bodies. The air smelled of minerals, and iodine, and tar.
“That never happened.” I raked my fingers self-consciously through my curls.
“Who am I going to tell?” Despite having been squashed under a helmet, Epic’s hair seemed to sift into its normal style. Silky and dark, the late afternoon sun reflected off it like a halo. My calf muscles had tightened, changing my stride. My thighs burned with every step. Epic made me reapply sunscreen.
“Feel like a dip?” I asked.
“Just because I wanted to go bike riding?” Epic gaped at me. “No.”
“I meant do you want to go back to the hotel and have a swim before dinner.”
“Oh. Okay.” He smiled slyly. “Sure.”
As we drove back to the hotel, Epic turned on the radio. I had it tuned to a satellite radio station that played classical music. He pushed theSeekbutton.
As he listened to the snippets of each station, I wondered if this was going to be the thing that began the end between us. Epic’s playlist had been great, but what was his normal taste in music? I’d driven over twelve hundred miles to get to Santa Barbara, and I could not have done it listening to country western or trance music.
“You don’t like classical?” I finally asked.
“I like it. Just wanted to see what else there is. My beater hasn’t exactly got satellite radio.”
“Oh.”
“Are there presets?”
“Why?”
“I’m snooping. I want to know what you listen to.”
“What do you listen to?”
“Lots of stuff.” He relaxed back into his seat. “Dance, trance, hip-hop, heavy metal, techno, jazz, funk, new age, classical, you name it.”
