by Ruthie Knox
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, exasperated. “Are you really that clueless?” And then she rose up on her toes, wrapped both hands around the back of his head, and kissed him.
When he kissed her back, there was nothing sweet about it. His mouth was hard and furious, his tongue punishing as it swept between her lips. He picked her up to crush her against the cheap siding of the shop, his grip on her hips tight enough to bruise. She twined her legs around him and held on, wanting him any way she could get him.
She hadn’t meant to do this. But when she’d found out for sure he was planning to leave, she suddenly understood that if he left now, she’d never get the chance to find out how she felt about him. She’d never learn what made him tick, she’d never see him smile again, and she’d never get to find out what his mouth would feel like on hers. She couldn’t bear that.
This was much better than not knowing.
Tom groaned deep in his throat, and she slid her hands down his stomach to grab the hem of his shirt and push it out of the way, needing his bare skin against her palms. Wrapping her arms around him, she splayed her fingers across his naked back and pulled him to her as tight as she could. The thick ridge of his erection landed between her legs, and her hips tilted a bit higher to put it exactly where she needed it.
Nothing she’d ever done had felt quite as reckless as this, but the payoff was beyond incredible, and she wasn’t going to second-guess herself. She could do that later. Now, she was going to wring every last bit of enjoyment out of this moment.
“Damn it,” he muttered against her lips. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” she begged, grinding hard against him until he took her mouth again and began thrusting against her in rhythm. Squeezed between him and the wall, the pressure of his body on hers was hard enough to hurt, but it was a good pain, a searing burn that hit her in just the right spot to create the tingling pull of an orgasm barreling down on her.
Tom kissed her with the desperation of a condemned man, holding her up with one hand while the other found her breast through her wet shirt and plucked at her nipple. Not gentle, not even nice, the touch produced a pulse of excitement that shot straight between her legs and made her gasp on an inhale, a choked, desperate sound she’d never heard come out of her mouth before.
Tom set her down so fast he nearly dropped her, backing away with his hands outstretched as if she were going to come after him and wrestle him to the ground. Lexie the succubus. She’d have been insulted if she hadn’t remembered, suddenly and horribly, that she was supposed to be a married woman.
He was breathing hard, his jaw clenched tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. Still aroused, but the anger was winning now.
“Tom—” She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she had to say something. To apologize. To take it back. To keep him from leaving her.
But she couldn’t tell him the truth. Not right now. If she told him now, he’d not only go, he’d ride away furious with her for lying to him and then clinging to that knee-jerk deception far longer than she should have.
He shook his head sharply, his entire body a negation. “I’m heading out. You’re riding with Paul.”
“I won’t. If you go, I’ll ride by myself.”
He exploded. “For Christ’s sake, Lexie! You can’t just do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it. I’m responsible for you, and I can’t leave you to ride alone.”
“You’re not responsible for me! Your sister answered my ad. That doesn’t make you my guardian angel.”
He stepped closer, looming over her, the angriest man in America. Maybe he should have been frightening, but she’d never once been afraid of Tom. She wasn’t about to start now. “In this case, it does,” he insisted. “I need to be sure you’re going to be safe.”
“So stay.” She stepped toward him until they were only inches apart again, their eyes locked, both of them too stubborn to yield.
“I can’t.”
“What just happened. That was—” She faltered again. She wanted to tell him it was a mistake, that it wouldn’t happen again, but it would be a lie. If he stayed, she was going to have sex with him. Against her better judgment and against all reason, just because she wanted to more than anything.
More than she wanted to finish the trip, even.
The thought caught her up short. What was the matter with her? How had she managed to lose her mind so completely in such a short period of time?
She needed to let him go.
“What just happened was wrong,” Tom said. His voice was low now, practically a whisper, but he spit out the word like an expletive. “I can’t do this. I need you to tell me you’ll ride with Paul so I can go.”
She met his tortured eyes and nodded.
He walked away.
8
Grangeville, Idaho, to Dillon, Montana. 1,177 miles traveled.
For the next four days, she rode alone.
She’d looked for Tom in Lowell. She didn’t expect to find him there, but not finding him left her with a hollow feeling in her chest she couldn’t seem to do anything about. Her tent had looked forlorn and kind of silly all by itself on the small, parched campsite.
It wasn’t just the tent. She’d felt forlorn and kind of silly, too.
Paul hadn’t turned up in Lowell either, which was a relief. She was over the tent-jitters thing after a thousand miles’ acclimation, and she’d rather carry on alone than deal with Paul. She felt a little guilty for not sticking around until he showed up the next day, knowing how upset Tom would be to find out she was riding by herself after all, but she figured what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. What had become of Paul remained a mystery. Most likely, he’d decided to cut the day short after the trauma of climbing the pass. She told herself not to worry about him. He was a grown man. He could take care of himself. And so could she, for that matter.
Riding alone left her with entirely too much time to think about Tom—and about what he’d made her feel.
Excited. Attracted. And, worst of all, a sense of possibility—romantic possibility—she hadn’t felt in years.
Ever since Peter, she’d told herself she could never be satisfied settling down to married life in the suburbs. Whenever she tried to imagine it, she got this picture of herself in a kitchen in one of those aprons that tied around the waist. Which was absurd, because she didn’t even own an apron. But she taught English—the symbolism of the fictitious apron wasn’t lost on her. What would happen to her long weekend rides and her dreams of bike trips to Europe, Africa, and Asia if she got married? She wasn’t likely to meet someone to spend the rest of her life with who shared her passions for biking and travel. Here she was, nearly thirty, and the only guy she’d ever met who could keep up with her on a bike was her brother.
Well, and Tom. But he wasn’t exactly marriage material, was he? He wasn’t even boyfriend material. In her experience, relationships had a script: mutual attraction, a few dates, good or bad sex, deepening feelings, maybe love, definitely disappointment. The way she felt about Tom didn’t begin to fit. From the very beginning, he’d gotten under her skin in a way she couldn’t ignore. But it was all so backward. She’d been attracted to him before she liked him, and now that he’d abandoned her she couldn’t stop thinking about him. They’d never been on a date, but they’d eaten practically every meal together for weeks. Now she’d never see him again, and she was utterly infatuated with him.
He was all wrong for her. Even if she’d been in the market for a relationship, she’d have known better than to choose Tom. The guy had “emotionally unavailable” written all over him. Plus, he wasn’t exactly a prize catch. He’d more or less admitted he wanted nothing to do with the rest of the human race. Lexie wasn’t the type of person who would do well in isolation, even with a really hot hermit who could kiss like Tom.
But that kiss … She couldn’t seem to bring herself to regret it. Not when it had felt so singularly right. Nob
ody had ever kissed her like Tom did, with a toe-curling heat that made her feel as though he could see inside of her. Something connected the two of them, something bigger than sex. And now he was gone, and she missed him.
She didn’t like it. She hadn’t signed up for any of this. But there it was.
It nagged at her that she hadn’t told him the truth when she had the chance. It had seemed such a small thing at first to fib about being married, but over the three weeks they’d ridden together the lie had taken on a life of its own. It had become the shield she used to keep herself from acting on her attraction to him. And then she’d dropped the shield without a second thought, only she hadn’t bothered to mention it to Tom. She hadn’t considered what her reckless actions would mean to him until it was too late. What they’d done together up against the back of the bike shop had made him feel dishonorable, and whatever flaws Tom had, he was an honorable guy. She got the sense that honor was one of the few things he had left in his life.
She couldn’t think about it without feeling weepy, so she tried not to think about it.
For a sixty-mile stretch in eastern Idaho, there were no services whatsoever, and she had to carry extra food and water. She treated herself to a cabin and a soak at Lolo Hot Springs and turned in early. The next morning, she crossed into Montana alone.
She tried to keep her mind off Tom, but it had a way of wandering back in his direction whenever she let her guard down. She wondered how far ahead he was, how many miles he was putting in each day. She wondered if he’d stopped in Missoula to have his picture taken at the Adventure Cycling headquarters. Probably not. He wouldn’t have wanted to have to talk to anyone.
She wondered if he’d talked to anyone at all.
She met Lance in Hamilton, a little town three streets wide and six streets long that had a surprisingly excellent bike shop and a very comfortable, shady park. She’d just finished an energy bar and was lying on her back in the grass, watching the biggest clouds she’d ever seen scoot across a limitless expanse of Montana sky, when a pair of bike shoes appeared in her peripheral vision and somebody sat down next to her.
“TransAm?” he guessed.
“Yep.” She didn’t really have the energy to be vivacious since Tom had left. It was as if he’d infected her with his disdain for polite conversation.
“East to west or—”
“West to east.”
“Me too. You riding alone?”
She would have liked to say no, but the lie would be pretty obvious. Plus, she had become painfully aware that honesty was the best policy.
“Yeah.”
“Where you headed tonight?”
“Over Chief Joseph Pass to May Creek.”
He whistled. “You don’t mess around.” A hand appeared, hovering a foot or so above her nose. She wasn’t sure if she was meant to shake it or what, so she just ducked, rolled to one side, and sat up.
“I’m Lance,” the guy said with an engaging grin.
The face went with the name, all cocky dimpled smile, two-day stubble, and tanned skin. He was beautiful but compact in the same way movie stars spotted in the real world are always just as gorgeous as they are on screen, but much smaller.
Oddly, he was also glistening.
“Why are you so shiny?”
He laughed, running his hand through his tousled blond locks. “A woman named Linda is giving wicked massages up the street at the craft fair. I couldn’t resist.” It was the Fourth of July, and there were festivities going on all over town.
“Oh.” That wasn’t as weird as some of the possibilities that had crossed her mind. “I’m Lexie.”
“Nice to meet you, Lexie. Are you sticking around for the parade?”
“When does it start?”
“About an hour. There’s an ice cream social after.”
She just wanted to ride, alone, but she knew feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to do her any favors.
Plus, she needed to learn how to loosen up. This guy had just bought a massage at a craft fair and was staying in town to attend an ice cream social. Maybe he could give her a few tips.
“Sure, why not?” she’d said.
They didn’t make it to May Creek that night. Instead, she took in the tiny Fourth of July parade with Lance, ate ice cream, and chatted with the locals about cycling and wild horses. With Lance’s encouragement, she ended up buying a straw cowboy hat from a vendor at the craft fair, line dancing at Hamilton’s one bar, and pitching her tent next to his in the backyard of Linda the masseuse.
All told, it was a pretty fun day.
It was also a good preview of what touring with Lance was like. He was a party on wheels, pretty much the exact opposite of Tom. He didn’t know an osprey from a blackbird, and when they crossed the Continental Divide his carefully neutral response to her exclamations of delight made it plain he didn’t understand even the basics of geology.
Tom had been great about all that stuff. When you could get him to talk, anyway.
But Lance made up for not being the brightest light on the patio with his easygoing charm and zest for adventure. He made a new friend everywhere they stopped, usually someone interesting who would end up offering to give them a horseback tour or a dinner of homemade chimichangas or the best root beer in Montana. And when they rode, they rode fast, easily hitting Lexie’s mileage targets.
There was only one problem: he kept flirting with her. She wished she’d told him she had a boyfriend or a husband, but she’d been honest, so he knew she was single. And really, the attention should have been flattering. Lance was a good-looking guy, if a little young for her at twenty-five. Under normal circumstances, she might have slept with him that first night in Hamilton, when he made a pass at her under the stars in the masseuse’s backyard.
But she hadn’t. Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about Tom. The jerk had ruined her for all other men.
It was what he had wanted all along—Montana spread out before him, one pass after another rising and sinking under his front tire, the blue skies, the silence. He camped on federal land and didn’t speak to a soul for four days after he left Lexie behind.
It should have been peaceful. Instead, it was lonely.
Lonely was a new feeling for him, and he didn’t like it much. It suggested a dependence he was uncomfortable with after so many years on his own. But it wasn’t as if he could deny it. There was little point in trying to bullshit yourself when it was just you and your thoughts, day after day, mile after mile.
No, the truth was he missed her. He missed the sound of her voice, the way she’d strike up a conversation with the guy who rang up her groceries or compliment a campsite manager on his well-tended property. Hell, he even missed hearing her talk to her husband on the phone. It had made him jealous hearing how easily James could make her laugh, the comfortable way she teased him, but it had also been kind of nice to know what she sounded like when her guard was down and she was 100 percent unfiltered Lexie.
She’d only ever sounded that way with him a few times—most memorably a few minutes before he walked away from her, when he was pressing her up against a wall and kissing her senseless.
Now there was a memory he couldn’t shake. The ecstasy written all over her face, the feel of her body pressing against his, the heat of her, the throaty sound of her voice. He relived it a hundred times a day, and every time he came to the same conclusion. He never should have kissed her back. He never should have touched her. And once he had, there hadn’t been any choice but to leave, because nothing short of leaving was going to keep him from doing it again.
Having principles was for suckers. He’d learned that lesson well six years ago. And here he was learning it all over again. If he weren’t such a sucker, he’d have Lexie—for a little while, anyway—and he was pretty sure having Lexie would make him a hell of a lot happier than having principles was making him.
But he was who he was, and if he’d been able to do a
nything about it, he would have done it a long time ago. So he watched his front tire eat up the pavement, and he rode as hard and as long as he could every day, trying to keep his mind blank—and failing.
By the time he got to Dillon, home of the University of Montana Western and not much else, he was sufficiently sick of the nonstop loop of longing and recrimination in his head that he called Taryn.
“So I’m standing outside the Patagonia outlet store wondering what you want for your birthday,” he said when she picked up.
“My birthday’s not for three months.”
“Yeah, but you love this stuff, and it’s cheap here.”
“You sound funny. What’s the matter with you?”
She always could read him like a book. He’d forgotten how inconvenient it was. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Right. How are you and Lexie getting along?”
“We’re not, actually. We split up.”
“Oh, Tom,” Taryn said, sounding disappointed. “What did you do?”
“Why do you assume it was me?”
“Because I could tell you liked her, and you don’t let yourself like anybody.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, not sure why he was fighting the admission. Of course he liked her. That was his whole problem.
“Come on, just say it. Tell me you like her. It will make my day.”
“Fine. I like her. Are you happy now?”
“No, because you obviously screwed it up. How come you’re not riding with her anymore?”
He sighed and leaned against the wall of the building. “She’s married.”
He hadn’t mentioned this detail to Taryn before. The news struck her dumb for a few seconds—possibly a record. “No,” she said finally.
“Yes.”
“She never said she was married when we e-mailed.”
“She never said she was a woman, either. For that matter, you didn’t tell her you were one.”