by Ruthie Knox
She settled for gushing to Tom. “Wow. That’s spectacular.”
“I thought you said we didn’t have to talk,” he replied.
Talk about a buzzkill. For one second, she’d allowed herself to forget who she was riding with, and Angry Tom had made her pay.
She snapped her mouth shut and decided on the spur of the moment it was staying that way. He didn’t want to talk to her? He thought she was annoying? Fine. He could ride with her all the way to Kansas and beyond, and she wasn’t going to say a single word to him unless he started the conversation.
Not. One. Word.
And why was he riding with her anyway? She’d figured he’d leave her in the dust as soon as they rolled out of Seaside, but either they were perfectly in sync—ha!—or he was deliberately matching her pace, because she’d spent the whole morning two feet off his back tire, staring at his broad shoulders and his chiseled calves.
It would have been a nice view if he weren’t such a jerk.
Okay, technically it was a nice view anyway. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
It should have been the perfect morning to ride. Traffic was light, and the temperature was in the low sixties, ideal for the rolling terrain. But she was too aware of Tom to enjoy herself. Everything he did got on her nerves. He was obviously in shape, barely even breathing hard as he powered up the hills. But did he really have to power up them like that? You were supposed to downshift and conserve your energy. Her Salsa had twenty-seven gears, and she’d used most of them already this morning. Tom was riding a twelve-speed. Who had a twelve-speed?
And he barely even used those twelve speeds. Lexie shifted every time her bike computer showed that her cadence had dropped below seventy revolutions per minute or risen above ninety. It kept her legs fresh for longer. At least, that’s what it said in all the articles she’d read. Tom didn’t even have a bike computer, and she’d only heard him shift a few times. When they went uphill, he rode harder, sometimes standing up on the pedals. When they descended, he stopped pedaling. He had no technique whatsoever.
He didn’t drink enough water, either. You were supposed to have a sip every fifteen minutes or so, even if you weren’t thirsty. Lexie had a backpack with a special sleeve in it for her two-liter water bag, and she made sure to stay hydrated. Tom had a couple bottles in cages on his bike, and she didn’t think he’d touched either of them since changing the flat. It wasn’t hot, and she wasn’t really thirsty either, but there were rules, and he was breaking them.
Lexie couldn’t stand people who broke the rules. They ruined everything for everybody else.
Every now and then, he’d sit up straight, take his hands off the handlebars, and stretch his shoulders lazily, giving Lexie a prime view of his broad back and muscular arms. Once, his T-shirt rode up and exposed a few inches of flawless olive skin, plus a black elastic waistband peeking out of his shorts that instantly had her wondering. Boxers? Briefs? Boxer-briefs?
And the whole time he stretched, he kept pedaling without the slightest wobble, as if holding on to the handlebars was optional.
It drove her up the wall.
If he wasn’t going to talk to her, how was she supposed to know when he wanted to stop for a break? Was she supposed to tell him when she wanted to pee, or just find a spot and do it? And how could they make plans for dinner or choose a campsite in silence?
The more she thought about Tom, the more irritated she got, and then she started to cross the line from irritated to angry. Because Tom was spoiling her first day on the TransAm, which was supposed to be the glorious beginning of the adventure of a lifetime.
She took a few deep breaths and tried to refocus. She wouldn’t let him get to her. This was her trip, not his. She’d stop whenever she wanted to, and he could go jump in the Pacific.
When they hit the next cute little coastal town along the route, she pulled over to grab a snack at a touristy grocery store. Tom could do whatever. He wasn’t her problem.
He stopped, too, following her inside. Crammed into a tiny building that must once have been a residence, the store was redolent of rich cheese and fresh fish—an unwelcome sensory overload after a morning spent in the fresh air. Not wanting to offend the owner, she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose as she selected an energy bar and a banana. Tom bought himself a bag of gourmet chips and a soda, which was really terrible fuel for a sixty-mile day. She almost felt sorry for him. The guy obviously had no idea what he was doing.
When she saw him put a four-pack of bottled beer and some chipped ice into a small cooler on his rear rack, she nearly forgot about her vow of silence and said something—something about all the extra weight on the climbs, and how he was going to wear himself out on their first day—but she caught herself. He could make his own stupid mistakes.
As she climbed back onto her bike and headed out of town, he dropped into place behind her, eventually settling into a spot so far back he was nearly out of sight. Lexie sighed in relief, happy she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the day watching him. It was distracting, cataloging his errors and wondering when they were going to catch up with him. He was distracting.
But even when he wasn’t in view, she found she still couldn’t relax.
When they hit the outskirts of Corvallis, Tom glanced back over his shoulder and caught sight of Lexie a few feet back, sticking like glue as usual. He had to hand it to her, she was tenacious. It had been three days since he’d ticked her off with a careless remark that had sounded a lot meaner than he’d intended, and she still wasn’t speaking to him.
Accustomed as he was to being alone, it had taken him a while to catch on that he was getting the silent treatment. What were they, nine years old? But silence suited him just fine, so he’d decided to see how long she could hold out, figuring she wouldn’t be able to make it past dinner without saying something.
She was more stubborn than he’d given her credit for. They’d gone a hundred and fifty miles, shared six meals, sat side by side through half a dozen rest stops, and dealt with another flat tire—Tom’s this time—all the while relying on hand gestures and facial expressions to communicate. Lexie had whipped out a notebook that first night and scribbled down a question, but he’d refused on principle to look at it. He was in this to win it. He wasn’t going to make it any easier for her.
By the end of day two, he’d begun to wonder if Lexie’s ability to hold a grudge might rival his own. He’d also reluctantly acknowledged she hadn’t been kidding when she said she could ride. Before breakfast, they’d tackled a three-mile hill with a nine-percent grade, and she’d hardly broken a sweat. Tom had never met a woman who could keep up with him on a bike. It was impressive.
Unfortunately, the catalog of Lexie’s good points pretty much ended there.
Yeah, all right, if you wanted to count physical attributes, she had one hell of a body, toned and taut from frequent exercise but still curvy in all the right places. Her ass looked so fine in black spandex, it was literally painful to ride behind her. Then there were those lips, the red-brown hair … and her eyes. He wondered if she knew they gave away every single thing she felt. Looking in them was like peering in on her emotions through plate glass.
But man, was she ever uptight. Rather than taking in the sights, she kept her neck bent over that stupid computer, shifting gears by the book, drinking water at recommended intervals, eating sensible snacks, checking the map and the elevation chart two dozen times a day. She had a notebook that seemed to contain directives for every single overnight stop on the trip, all of them selected in advance.
Worse, they were passing through some of the most gorgeous scenery in Oregon, and she never pulled over except to eat. She hadn’t deviated from the mapped route even once. Did the woman have no sense of adventure whatsoever? What was the point of riding across the country if you weren’t going to stop and see anything? He’d figured maybe the famous ice cream in Tillamook would tempt her, but she hadn’t given the slightest indication s
he wanted to tour the dairy.
Tom had put up with it for the past few days, but he wasn’t about to breeze through Corvallis. He knew the university town pretty well, and there was a burrito at Reynaldo’s with his name on it. Recognizing the cross-street he wanted, he checked for traffic before drifting out into the middle of the road and signaling a left turn with his arm.
After he’d completed the turn, he coasted down the street and watched Lexie over his shoulder, curious as to whether she would follow him off the map. She’d stopped at the intersection, and now she was straddling her bike with both feet on the ground, giving him her best glare. He felt an unwelcome surge of heat in his groin. Something about the sight of that woman with a bike between her thighs really turned his crank.
His frame wobbled, forcing him to turn his attention back to the road and pedal a few strokes to keep from falling over. When he glanced back again, she still hadn’t moved. The expression on her face was priceless, as if he were trying to tempt her into taking a bite of forbidden fruit rather than just lead her through a four-block detour. Tom jerked his head in the direction he wanted her to go, unable to prevent the corner of his mouth from curving into a smile.
Come on, babe. I’ll buy you a burrito.
She got on her bike and started across the road in his direction.
“Atta girl,” he said under his breath.
“You and your husband must be having so much fun!”
The woman, whose name tag identified her as Rosalie, beamed at her from behind the hostess stand.
The first time someone had made the mistake, Lexie had been caught off guard. After the fourth or fifth person had assumed Tom was her husband, she’d stopped correcting them. It didn’t really matter if a bunch of random strangers thought she and Tom were a couple—though if this was what marriage looked like, it was a pretty sad commentary on the state of the institution.
Of course, maybe that was about right. Both times she’d pinned her hopes on a man, she’d gotten an unpleasant wake-up call instead of a trip down the aisle. Considering that one of the men she’d agreed to marry had cheated on her and the other had become so psychotically possessive that she’d had to change jobs and get a restraining order after she broke it off with him, it probably stood to reason she’d end up wed to a brittle, silent guy like Tom. Picking out Prince Charming was not her forte.
“Yeah, the trip has really been amazing so far,” she replied in a voice she hoped was appropriately cheerful. No need to burst the woman’s bubble, even if she had trapped Lexie in an unwanted conversation after waving her arm around the restaurant and encouraging them to pick any seat they wanted. At which point Tom had promptly done so, leaving Lexie to deal with Rosalie on her own.
“You have to do these things while you’re young,” Rosalie said, suddenly earnest and clutching at Lexie’s arm. “My Herbert and I always said we’d travel the world one day, but he died six weeks before his retirement party, and we never got to go anyplace at all. Well, except that one time we went to Reno, and Herbert won five hundred dollars on the blackjack …” Smiling politely, Lexie nodded and let her mind wander, only half-listening to the story of Rosalie’s adventures in the Neon Babylon.
In truth, the trip had been about as much fun as grading midterms so far. The scenery was incredible, the weather excellent, the traffic light, the people she met interesting, but Tom had her wound up like a spring.
It wasn’t so much the way he rode anymore. She’d gradually realized over their three days together he wasn’t the total novice he seemed. Or if he was, he was in good enough condition to get away with it. He’d appeared as relaxed and comfortable in the saddle on their second and third days together as he’d been on the first. On the long, steep climb out of Cape Lookout, Tom had been unfazed, even energetic. She, on the other hand, had been forced to drop into her granny gear and left with shaky legs.
No, the problem wasn’t his riding style. It was him. Something about Tom just got under her skin. When they made camp in the afternoons, he set up his tent—which was roomy enough to make her lightweight one-man contraption look like little more than a sarcophagus—showered, and kicked back with a cold beer and a book. He was a totally self-contained unit, and it was all she could do to keep from disturbing him. Talking to him. Poking him with a stick. Anything to make him acknowledge her presence.
He was reading a well-thumbed copy of Walden, Henry David Thoreau’s famous account of his year spent living in the woods and practicing self-reliance. She loved Walden. The book was one of the few highlights of teaching eleventh-grade English. But since she wasn’t speaking to Tom, she couldn’t tell him that. Not being able to talk to him gave her an itchy feeling, so she’d started a list in her ride journal of questions she’d ask him if she could. What did he think of the book? Had he done any touring before? What did he have against the human race? Why didn’t he wear real bike shorts? What was the story with the tattoos? And those were only items one through five—the list went to twenty-eight. Lexie was completely fascinated with the mystery that was Angry Tom.
It irritated her no end.
And now he’d thrown half a smile her way—the first pleasant expression she’d seen on his face since Seaside—and she’d followed him off the route as if he were the Pied Piper so that they could eat lunch at a restaurant he’d obviously known was here, which raised a whole host of new questions she couldn’t ask. If she had any sense at all, she’d just give it up and speak to the guy. But she couldn’t. When she and James were kids, Lexie had prided herself on never being the first one to cave, and she wasn’t going to give Tom the satisfaction of winning this round.
No, she had to come up with a way to get him to speak to her against his will. Glancing over at Tom in the booth, she caught him staring at her again, his expression impassive, his long fingers toying idly with a bottle of hot sauce. Hot sauce was clearly a thing here—every table had its own caddy filled with a bunch of different varieties.
Hmm. Now that was an idea with potential.
“Don’t you think so, dear?”
Rosalie was looking at her expectantly, and Lexie scrambled to replay her mental tape of the woman’s monologue, searching for the right response. Dimly, she remembered Rosalie saying something about the importance of pursuing your dreams.
“Oh, you’re right,” Lexie answered. “When you want something, you’ve just got to go balls to the wall and refuse to give up until you’ve got it.” She put on a bright smile, ignoring the hostess’s shocked expression. “It’s been so nice talking to you. I hope you won’t mind excusing me, but I don’t want to keep my husband waiting any longer.”
The other woman’s reply drifted over her shoulder as she walked away. “Believe me, honey, if I had that man in my bed, I wouldn’t keep him waiting either.”
Lexie slid into the booth with a smile in her eyes and picked up her menu, leaving Tom to wonder what she and the other woman had been talking about that had gotten her so fired up. Maybe he should’ve stuck around to hear the conversation, but he’d been enjoying the voyeur’s version. The booth gave him an unobstructed view of Lexie’s backside, and it was far enough away that he didn’t have to listen to the hostess asking where they were headed, how long it was going to take them to get there, and why in God’s name anyone would want to cross the country by bicycle.
Accustomed to the curiosity bike travelers provoked, Tom had been weary of the questions before they even started riding, but Lexie’s patience for polite conversation showed every sign of being inexhaustible. She couldn’t seem to order pancakes without finding out their waitress’s name, hometown, and whether she was a Pisces or a Capricorn. When they’d arrived at the campground last night and had been assigned a site number, Tom had located their patch of grass, pitched his tent, and taken a shower before Lexie was finished swapping tales with the manager on duty.
It was even worse when she got talking to other cyclists. Anecdotes about adventure and mishaps on the road ri
veted her, and she would listen with eyes like saucers, her cheeks pink, her whole torso tipped slightly toward the speaker, hands clasped between her thighs. If she ever got off her high horse and started talking to him again, maybe he’d tell her about the bull that had run him off the road on the Great Divide trail. Or the time he’d gone ass over teakettle crossing a river in Costa Rica and lost one of his panniers, leaving him without a tent, a change of clothes, or a toothbrush for three days. Solo touring certainly came with its fair share of disasters, amusing only in retrospect.
When their waitress brought them a basket of chips and a few different kinds of salsa, Tom ordered a beer. “Same for me, please,” Lexie said, to his surprise. She hadn’t shown any interest in sharing his beer at the campsites, though he always had a few to spare. He’d figured she didn’t drink. Women like her couldn’t stand to lose control. Not that one beer had ever killed anybody.
She caught his eye as the waitress departed, holding his attention with a mischievous twist of her lips. Raising one elbow high, Lexie let her hand hover dramatically over the selection of hot sauces on their table before plunging her fingers down to pluck out a tiny bottle. She rolled it around in her palm, studying the label with great concentration, and then set it down midway between the two of them.
This performance was clearly for his benefit, but Tom couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He leaned back in the upholstered booth, cradling his head in both hands, and watched.
Lexie went through the whole ritual again, making sure she had his attention as she selected another type of hot sauce, read all the claims on the label, and found it a place on the tabletop a few inches to the left of the first bottle.