Falling For Her Manny

by Souders, Tia

  “Logan and I leave for Europe tomorrow, remember?” Marti wiggled her brows. “Prescheduled, nonrefundable tickets.”

  “You stink.”

  “And you are late.” Mel waved her toward the door.

  BLAKE

  BLAKE’S PALMS GREW damp as Mel walked by his side toward his bike. Anticipation hung in the air for what this evening might hold. If Blake had anything to do with it, tonight would be a turning point for them. He’d tell Mel how he felt about her and that his relationship was over. He only hoped she felt the same way.

  He paused by the motorcycle, holding his breath at her reaction. He hadn’t exactly informed her they’d be traveling by bike. And this particular one was special. It was the first one he’d ever personally owned and worked on rebuilding himself. It was sleek and all black and chrome, with smooth lines and just barely enough room for two people.

  Jen had never ridden on one of his bikes before. She was always too concerned with how she’d look in a helmet, the loud motor, and messing her hair up. But unless he had pegged her wrong, he didn’t think Mel would have the same reservations, at least he hoped.

  When Mel caught sight of their ride, she paused. Her eyes widened as she stared at the machine. And for one, heart-stopping moment, Blake thought he made a mistake. Until Mel broke out into a huge smile, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Please tell me that’s yours,” she said, pointing, “and that’s what we’re riding to Highland Park.”

  “It is.” Blake sauntered over to the bike and patted the seat with affection.

  Mel shrieked and closed the gap between them.

  “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him, eyes wild with excitement. “Um, yeah. I’ve never been on one before though,” she said.

  “There’s nothing to it when you’re the passenger.”

  “May I?” she asked, motioning toward the bike.

  “Be my guest.” He waved her forward, watching with delight as she stretched one long, jean-clad leg over the seat and straddled it, bracing her hands on the handlebars. Watching her share in his excitement for something he loved so much tugged on a place in his chest he hadn’t known existed.

  Sitting on his bike with her dark hair ruffling in the breeze, her eyes bright, she was more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. When he’d first met her, she had been stressed, bogged down by the weight of life. Now she sat, head tipped toward the setting sun, arms spread wide. She was the picture of ease, wild, carefree, magnetic, and it wasn’t hard for him to imagine her in the days before she had children and so many responsibilities. He hadn’t yet seen this side of her, but he could get used to it. Maybe he could help her see she could be both Mom and the carefree, unburdened version of herself she once was.

  When she finally stopped daydreaming or wherever her mind had taken her, she glanced down to the machine between her legs, then back to Blake. “So what kind is this?”

  “This,” he said, “is a 750cc Commando.”

  Mel nodded like she knew exactly what that was, then smiled him. “I have no idea what that even means. Tell me about it.” Her amber eyes sparkled under the fading light of day, and Blake wanted nothing more than to sweep her in his arms. But it was too soon, so instead, he answered her questions.

  “It was actually manufactured in the UK before the bike industry there exploded in the 70s. It’s a pretty simple, straightforward bike, but the cool part is,” he said, moving closer and motioning toward the back of the bike, “it has a unique "Isolastic" engine mounting system.”

  “Sure, Isolytic.” Mel laughed. “Can you explain that in laymen’s terms, please.”

  “Basically, they separated the drive from the engine and gearbox, which is prone to a lot of vibrations, essentially—”

  “Isolating them,” Mel interrupted with a wink.

  Blake’s breath caught, and it took a moment for him to speak. “From the discomforts, yes,” he finished. “And it’s pretty fast, so there’s that.” He grinned, and when Mel returned his smile, his gut clenched.

  “So . . .” she said as Blake drew closer. “This is the one I’m riding, where’s yours?” She glanced around them exaggeratedly, and Blake laughed.

  Removing the helmets from the back of the bike, he gently slid one over her head, taking his time, adjusting the strap, feeling the warmth of her breath on his hand as he did. Once he finished, he murmured, “Scoot back, and I’ll get on. Then you can get comfortable.”

  “Alright,” Mel said, breathless.

  He straddled the seat, then twisted back to look at her. “Just a few things before we go,” he said, trying to focus on the instruction for his rider, rather than the fact that Mel was pressed flush against him. “Use the footpegs.” He pointed down to them as she moved her feet per his instruction. “Don’t touch the exhaust.” He motioned to the chrome pipe toward the bottom, back of the bike. “The rest you don’t really need to worry about. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

  “Um.” Mel glanced around them, her hands fluttering between them. “What do I hold onto?”

  Blake grinned a wry smile. This was the part he’d enjoy the most. “Me,” he murmured, and when she reached out but hesitated, he grabbed her hands, warm in his own, and wrapped them around him. “Here,” he murmured. “Like this.” His abdomen clenched in response.

  Then he shoved his own helmet on, and asked, “Ready?”

  “Ready,” she said, a hitch to her voice.

  Then Blake smiled and kicked the throttle.

  MEL

  EVERYTHING WAS AMPLIFIED times one thousand. That’s the way Mel would describe riding on a motorcycle if asked. She hugged Blake tighter as they rounded a corner. She smelled everything—the green grass, the scent of wild honeysuckle on the hillside, exhaust from trucks as they passed. And she felt everything, too—the whipping wind, the change in temperature as they rode under a canopy of trees, the splash of a puddle, and the raw power of the machine beneath her.

  From what she could tell, Blake was an aggressive yet cautious driver. He expertly maneuvered passed slow traffic and around bends while Mel held onto him, watching the world blur by.

  They hit town far sooner than she would’ve liked, passing by restaurants and shops. Blake even took her on a tour through the Livingston Historic Manor District, a gorgeous 20th-century development of houses. He rode through Johnson Park along the Raritan River, boasting tennis courts, picnic groves, a playground, and even a petting zoo Mel knew would be her children’s favorite new spot. They passed a farmers market, a little coffee shop, and hotels, while Blake pointed things out that he clearly researched ahead of time with Mel soaking it all in. Because this was soon to be her home.

  When he finally stopped the bike and parked in the lot of a hardware store, he shut the engine off, while Mel tore off her helmet and shook out her hair.

  “Well, how was it?” Blake asked as he swung off the bike and turned to face her, removing his own helmet before taking hers.

  “Amazing,” Mel said, and she meant it. The winding road, the wind nipping at her skin sent a shimmy down her spine. It made her feel alive. Or maybe it was the man in front of her.

  Blake grinned, then reached out a hand. “Come on.”

  “You brought me to a hardware store,” Mel said, more a statement than a question, as they entered through the whooshing front doors.

  Blake shrugged. “Well, you once saved a newspaper clipping of a little house because you dreamed it, and now that dream is coming true, so I thought we could do a little more dreaming up for your little house. It may not be tomorrow or even next year, but eventually, you’ll want to make your mark on it. Upgrade the kitchen and maybe even the bathrooms, possibly replace the flooring. It’ll be your house, so anything you dream up is possible. How about it? You want to go dreaming?”

  Mel glanced above at the signs hanging over the brightly lit aisles and smiled. It would be a fun game, something she could see
herself doing with the kids. “Yes, please. Let’s start with the kitchen.”

  After picking out her dream cabinets and countertop, they moved onto the bathroom section. Mel had to admit, dreaming up all the possibilities for her new place had her even more excited than she thought possible for the future.

  As they perused tile, Blake glanced over at her, a curious expression on his face, then back again.

  “What?” Mel smirked. “I can tell you want to ask me something.”

  Blake hesitated, then asked, “What was your childhood home like?”

  “Average, I guess. We lived in Upper Montclair in a little house, just the three of us.”

  “Ah, so you were already somewhat familiar with urban life outside the city.”

  Mel ran her hand over the marble tile in front of her, while she spoke, wistful as she thought of her parents. “Yeah, you could say that. My dad worked in the city, while my mom worked part-time in retail. I was always pretty close to my parents. My mother especially. She was home more, while my dad’s hours were long and so was the commute. Sometimes it was a little lonely though, being an only child, which is why I always knew I wanted to have more than one kid.” Mel’s lips twisted, and she laughed. “I just hadn’t planned on having them all at once.”

  “Once and done,” Blake said. “You’re efficient, I’ll give you that.”

  Mel needled him playfully in the arm. “What about you? What was life like?”

  Blake grimaced. “We were luckier than most.”

  “You and your brother . . .”

  “Grant.” Blake nodded. “We were bounced around a lot, but we were only ever separated once, and that was temporary until they could find us another placement. As you age in the system, fewer families want you. They want the cute little cherub-faced kids with early bedtimes, not teenagers. But we never witnessed any real abuse or experienced any of the horror stories you sometimes hear about, so all in all, we fared well.”

  “I suppose that’s a good way to look at it.”

  Blake shrugged, and Mel sensed he wanted a change of subject when he asked, “What do you think you’d want to eventually replace the kitchen floor with? More tile or laminate wood?”

  “I’m not sure. What fares better with kids?”

  “Either really. Wood can nick and scratch, but tile can always crack, and grout’s a pain to clean.”

  “Where’d you learn to rebuild bikes?” Mel asked, not yet finished with learning all the things about him she’d longed to know. He knew far more about her than she did of him.

  A soft smile claimed Blake’s lips as he stared past her, as if remembering. “That would be Big John.”

  “Big John?” Mel raised her brow.

  “He was a burly thirty-something that took a chance on a quiet teenage boy he knew nothing about. He gave me a job in his shop and taught me everything, starting with the basics. Things like checking tire pressure, changing the oil, how to oil the cables. How to change the brakes, filters, and drive chain. Sometimes, Grant came and helped out, and he taught him too. But Grant was a bit more unruly than me, always chasing girls and sometimes getting into trouble. Me? I just wanted an outlet, something to do with my time and my life that made me feel useful, needed. Plus, I wanted the money. I saved from the time I was fourteen because I knew I only had four years until I was out. Once I turned eighteen, I’d have nowhere to go and no one to rely on. And Grant would shortly follow. Luckily, when the time came, Big J let me sleep in his shop for a while until I could manage to live in such an expensive city on my own. He even turned a blind eye to my doing side work. After a while, my business took off.” Blake shrugged. “Before I knew it, I had enough work and clients of my own to fill my days.”

  “And B’s Bikes was born,” Mel said softly.

  Blake reached out and playfully tugged on a lock of her hair. “Were you hoping for something more exciting?”

  “No.” Mel shook her head. “You once told me I don’t give myself enough credit, but you’re Blake Britton,” she said, nudging him, “and you don’t give yourself enough either. You’ve done so much with so little. It’s a lot more than most can say. Even if you hadn’t, it’s your story, so I think it’s pretty perfect, actually,” she said, mustering her courage.

  Blake reached out and clasped her hand in his. “I think you’re pretty perfect.”

  Mel let out a half-laugh, her nerves rioting in her chest like a swarm of butterflies. When Blake looked at her like that, it felt a whole lot like flirting, and she found herself wanting to believe in fairytales and true love. The only problem was, she was pretty sure they didn’t exist.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MEL

  By the time they left the store, brimming with ideas for Mel’s future kitchen, bathrooms, and a pocketful of paint color cards, Mel’s rumbling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since noon. Glancing at her watch, she noted it was now past seven-thirty.

  “Hungry?” Blake laughed as her stomach grumbled again.

  “Just a little.” Mel pressed a hand to her stomach.

  “Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”

  Ten minutes later, Blake parked just outside of town. They walked the streets, slowly, taking their time, which suited Mel just fine. The evening couldn’t last forever, but she was enjoying her time out. How long had it been since she’d had a night out without the kids? Even though some might not find hardware stores to be exciting evening entertainment, Mel could’ve gone anywhere with Blake and enjoyed herself. She didn’t need a five-course meal, an exclusive club, or conversation over twenty-dollar drinks. So when she heard the boisterous laughter and the blare of a band playing music in the streets, Mel followed the sound.

  One block away, vendors lined streets strung with twinkle lights. Food trucks, craft booths, and local entrepreneurs hocked their wares while a band played in the center of a makeshift stage.

  “Here,” Mel said, watching the droves of people drift from beneath the canopy of the vendor’s tents. “Let’s eat here.”

  Blake paused and turned to look at her, hesitating. “Are you sure? I thought we’d go somewhere nice.”

  “No. This is perfect. Come on,” Mel said, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the crowd.

  Ten minutes later, they got sidetracked by the entertainment. Mel tapped her foot to the beat of the music, standing on the outskirts of a dancefloor with a growing crowd of people moving to whatever beat the band fed them.

  “What’s the occasion or event?” Mel asked a woman standing beside her, gesturing around them.

  “The annual Highland Park Spring Fest. We have it every year.”

  Mel nodded, then turned to Blake and beckoned him with a curled finger.

  His eyes widened, and he shook his head. “No dancing.”

  Mel laughed and reached out, tugging his hand and pulling him onto the dancefloor. “Come on, live a little,” she yelled over the blare of the music, but Blake stood immobile, both fear and amusement dancing in his eyes.

  “I don’t usually dance,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes, then grinned at his discomfort. It was maybe the only time, other than that first day with her kids, she’d seen him look out of sorts. “Chicken,” she challenged.

  And so, with a bark of laughter, he shook his head and joined her on the dancefloor. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  But then he swayed along with her to the beat, and before they knew it, they were dancing with abandon. As Mel moved, she felt the tension of the last few months slip away, absorbed by the balmy April air. Everything she’d wanted for her future lay right at her fingertips. Everything, for once, was finally falling into place like it should.

  She moved to the music as song poured into song, tipping her head back toward an indigo sky, feeling the beat of the drums vibrate through her until her pulse became the drums and the drums became her pulse. She danced until she was breathless and the tang of sweat coated her brow. She twirled and
spun until she became one with the songs.

  And before she knew what was happening, two hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her in. She laughed as she glanced up into familiar eyes, nearly onyx, lost in song under the twinkling lights, and she knew this was a night she’d always remember. The night she flew like a bird through the winding streets, and Blake gave her dreams room to grow.

  Blake pressed a hand to her lower back, then spun her out away from him and reeled her back in again. He twirled her around and they danced together until the music became a part of them. It seeped into their bones and reached into their souls. They moved until the crowds died, her feet ached, and her stomach hurt from hunger.

  And then the song shifted into something slow and soft. Blake pulled her in and held her in his arms, drifting to the soft melody, one hand pressed firmly over her lower back, the other sliding to her shoulder. Suddenly, the music faded as all of Mel’s attention zeroed in on the heat of his touch through the thin cotton of her blouse.

  Her breath snagged in her throat, and she chuckled self-consciously, then met his eye, and the world stopped. He stared down at her with unwavering intensity. His eyes shined like firelight under the twinkle lights, and the way he looked at her. . . It was like she was the only thing in the room, the only thing he saw.

  He inched even closer, his hand moving from her shoulder to beneath her chin, where he tipped her face back. Warning bells rang in her head because she knew that look. It had been a long time since she had stared into the eyes of a man who wanted to kiss her. But instinct kicked in, and her lips parted slightly. His soft breath caressed her lips like a siren call, and then he pressed his mouth to hers.

  His lips were everything she imagined they would be—warm and soft, giving, yet pliant. Her breathing hitched as he expertly moved his mouth, nipping at her lips in soft, breathless, whispers—teasing, tasting, testing as he drew her even closer.