Page 23 of How Jenna Became My Dilemma

“Sounds easy enough.”

“Should be.” The front gate opens after Cody types in the code. “Ladies first—part of the whole gentleman thing we talked about earlier.” His hand sweeps out in front of me. “Unless you want me to lead.”

“No, I’ll go first.” I swing my leg over the bike and begin a slow pedal.

“I was hoping you’d say that so I can check out your butt in those pants.”

“I heard that,” I call over my shoulder. “Some gentleman!”

“Kidding! Kind of.” But I hear enough playfulness in his voice to know he is kidding.

I’m actually grateful for Cody’s teasing. It breaks the ice just a little bit and helps me relax into an easy rhythm pedaling.

The afternoon sun hits my bare arms, coating them with warmth as an ocean breeze blows my long hair behind me. I breathe in the air, filling my lungs with salt, and for a moment, I’m completely content.

All my problems have vanished.

There’s no stress from bad reviews, nerves about filming upcoming scenes, pressure to conjure up chemistry with Cody, or demands to look perfect all the time.

I’m just a girl riding a bike.

I weave through streets, turning to keep us near the shoreline, until we reach the path parallel to the coast. We’re going so fast no one has the chance to notice who we really are—another liberating part of the bike ride. And let’s not forget about the other best part—the part where I don’t have to make forced small talk with Cody.

Eventually, I know we’ll have to talk and do what Quinton says, but I like that we’re easing into it.

At the boardwalk's end, instead of returning the same way we came, I pull onto the street and try a new route. It’s less crowded, with just the occasional passerby or car.

This is pure heaven.

Until it’s not.

The end of my heavenly bike ride stops so quickly that I don’t even register what’s happening until it’s too late.

My foot presses against the pedal, but a new tension fights against the movement, making it difficult. I glance down to see what’s trapping me as I try to complete another cycle. The bottom of my flowy wrap pants is twirling through the back wheel.

I yank on the fabric, hoping to quickly unhook it before disaster strikes, but there’s not enough loose fabric to grab ahold of.

“Stop pedaling!” Cody has obviously noticed my predicament.

But it’s too late. The events of the next two seconds have already been put in motion. My legs are forced to a halt as if the pants are some kind of straightjacket for my thighs. The material on my right leg pulls so tight that there’s nowhere for it to go but off me. There’s a loud tearing noise as my wrap pants rip just below the tie at my waist—freaking double knot!—leaving me sitting on the bike seat with my bare buttcheeks exposed for the entire world—and Cody Banner—to see.

The remaining pant fabric loops through the circling wheel until it pulls taut, stopping the bike. I go to get off, but my pants are wound so tightly between the spokes that I can’t move. Without speed forward, I fall to the side, landing on my stomach with the bike on my legs, not even covering my bare butt.

Cody skids to a stop, rushing over. He tears off his sunglasses and bends down so he’s eye level with me. I don’t know what kind of expression is on my face, but whatever it is, it doesn’t portray even half of the embarrassment I feel.

I’m mortified.

Cody is shocked.

And to make everything worse, two men are on the horizon, jogging toward us.

Cody’s gaze sweeps over my body, assessing the damage. “Are you hurt?”

I don’t answer or move.

I’m frozen—kind of like those girls in horror movies who don’t run away right before they’re about to be chopped to pieces by an ax murderer, and you keep screaming at the movie, ‘Run and hide, you stupid girl! Run and hide!’

But I’m stuck, so there’s no running and hiding. I lie there, clueless about how to solve my indecent-exposure problem. The only thing registering is the airy breeze drifting over my bare skin that wasn’t there a few seconds ago…because I had pants on.

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