Ryder's Bride (Brides Bay Book 1)

by V. K. Sykes

  Pam’s non-sequiturs were legendary in Brides Bay.

  Tammy poked her partner in the ribs. “Well, why wouldn’t she be here, you goose? She’s taking care of Mr. Griffin’s house. Isn’t that right, Claire?”

  Pam bristled like a corn broom. “Lord, it was just a figure of speech, woman. Or was that yet another thing they didn’t teach you yokels down there in Alafriggingbama?”

  Tammy’s generous mouth stretched in a pained smile. “Bless her heart. That poor woman doesn’t have the manners that God gave a peanut, something I tell her every darn day.”

  The mostly put-on bickering of Pam and Tammy was a never-ending source of amusement in Brides Bay. Pam was a Mainer, born and bred, while Tammy was from the Deep South. They’d met four years ago on a dating web site and fallen into a mad cyber love affair. It wasn’t long before Tammy made her first long trek up to Maine in a pickup truck more or less held together with Flex-Seal and duct tape. Pam had generously offered to give up her one-person cleaning business and move to Alabama, but Tammy had already decided that Maine would be a far more welcoming place for them as a couple. So she quit her supermarket job, packed up her few belongings, and drove up to Brides Bay. Almost two years ago, they’d married in the local Episcopal Church in a fun, quirky ceremony that combined the best of both North and South.

  “Ah, what can I do for you ladies?” Ry said, giving them a puzzled look.

  “Oh, gosh, I should make the introductions,” Claire said quickly.

  Tammy, a fiftyish redhead with big hair and an even bigger personality shot out her hand. “No need, dear. We know who Mr. Griffin is. I’m Tammy Grange, sir, and this lovely lady’s my wife, Pam Slowey. Together, we’re PamTam Cleaning Services—the best darn housecleaners between Portland and the Canadian border, as we like to say.”

  Ry didn’t blink, reacting only with a smile. Apparently nothing in that action-packed introduction fazed him at all, including the rather absurd name they’d picked for their little company. Some of the locals liked to tease them by deliberately messing up the name—TamPam, FlimFlam, SpamSpam, and occasionally the rather naughty WhamBam.

  “Nice to meet you.” Ry shook hands with each of them.

  “We’re real sorry to interrupt,” Tammy said. “But we saw y’all out here as we were driving by, and I said to Pam, heck, why don’t we just stop on by and say hello?”

  “And I told Tammy we should mind our own darn business, but you know how the woman gets, Claire. No holding her back,” Pam said with an exaggerated eye-roll. A no-nonsense brunette with close-cropped hair, she was the younger of the two by about five years.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pamela, I just wanted to give the man our card and wish him a good morning.” She leveled her dazzling, southern-charm smile right at Ry. If anyone could break through the reserve of the Hermit of Promise Island, it would be Tammy. “My lovely partner doesn’t quite get the whole business thing, Mr. Griffin. Really, I don’t know how she ever managed without me. She figures clients just drop out of the trees, like coconuts.”

  “And you’re about as subtle as a sledgehammer, Tammy Sue Grange,” Pam said with heavy sarcasm. “That approach may work in Cornpone Corners, Alabama, but around here people are more—”

  “Thanks, ladies,” Ry interrupted.

  Hermits clearly had their limits. He took the card from Tammy’s outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Mallory told us a while ago that you’ll probably be needing a cleaning service,” Tammy said, “especially once you build one of those big, fancy houses here. That’s what people say you’re fixing to do.”

  Claire gritted her teeth at the reminder. She wasn’t surprised that Tammy knew about his plans. There wasn’t too much going on in Brides Bay that Tammy Grange didn’t know about. And if she knew, everybody else knew soon after, although she was totally trustworthy when it came to stuff that her clients told her they wanted to remain confidential.

  “We’d be pleased to take care of that for you, Mr. Griffin,” Pam said when Ry didn’t immediately respond. “And between Claire and us, your place will be in the very best of hands, believe you me. You can be away for as long as you like, and your house will always be spotless and safe for you to come home to.”

  Ry glanced once at the card and then slid it into his back pocket. “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll let you know.”

  After Pam gave Tammy a little poke on the arm, the two said their goodbyes. To make up for Ry’s low-key response, Claire gave them an extra big smile and a cheery wave as they drove away. She didn’t like to think he might get a reputation for being cool to the locals, especially popular ones like Pam and Tammy.

  “Derek told me about those two,” he said.

  “What did he say? I know Jane is quite happy with them.”

  “He said they’re always good for a laugh.”

  “He got that right. Pam and Tammy are very good at what they do. Just don’t hang around when they’re working unless you’re ready to get your ear chewed off.”

  “No fear on that score. But they’d better like dogs.” He looked down at Stanley, now back from a brief visit with Carter and the other guys who were working on the new garage. Claire did her best to ignore the racket. Construction noise was starting to be a plague on the island, even though it provided much needed work for local tradesmen and laborers.

  The Newf threw himself down at his master’s feet and started wriggling around on his back, kicking up a mini dust storm.

  “They sure do,” Claire said. “And they’re really interesting people. Pam is a skilled ceramic artist, but she just couldn’t make a living at it so she started cleaning houses. Tammy makes wire-wrapped necklaces, pendants, and earrings in her spare time. They sell their stuff at festivals and fairs on most weekends during the summer. We bump into each other sometimes when I’m trying to sell my watercolors.”

  “Cool,” he said vaguely as he crouched down to give Stanley a belly rub.

  “And believe it or not, they both ride old Harleys.”

  His head jerked up. “Seriously?”

  “If you’d been in town more, I’m sure you’d have seen them cruising around by now.”

  Oops. Though unintentional, that must have sounded like a dig.

  Fortunately, he didn’t seem to take offense. “Okay, now I’ll definitely have something to talk to them about.”

  “You’re going to hire them?”

  “Sure. If you say they’re good, that’s all the recommendation I need.”

  She tried not to grin like an idiot, warmed by his expression of trust.

  “Now, about the garage…” Ry stood and took a couple of steps, grabbed the handle of one of the metal doors, and yanked it up.

  Claire followed him through the door and then skidded to a halt.

  Chapter 4

  Holy crap. What a collection.

  Claire scanned her eyes over a pickup truck, a hulking SUV, two snazzy sports cars, and a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle. About the only kind of vehicle missing was a snowmobile. Maybe Ry would get around to acquiring one of those too by the time the first snow flew.

  And then, on the far end of the garage, there were the death machines—seven motorcycles of various sizes and colors. The very sight of them made her queasy. No wonder he’d perked up when she mentioned that Tammy and Pam rode Harleys.

  “Uh, this is…incredible. They’re collectibles, right? I mean, most of these motorcycles.”

  He looked at her like she’d just sprouted fairy wings. “Hell, no. I use them all.”

  She clamped down on the nausea rising within her and forced herself to make normal conversation. “Did you have a big place like this to keep them in New York?” She assumed he’d lived in some high-rise Manhattan condo.

  He gazed around with obvious masculine pride. “I rented a garage in New Jersey. I didn’t have a lot of time to use this stuff when I was still playing. Still, I’d head across the river and fire up a few whenever I got a chance.”
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br />   His choice of toys suggested he was a man who enjoyed taking risks. After all, doctors didn’t call motorcyclists “organ donors” for nothing, and ATV’s were notorious for serious accidents too. Almost every year, one of the local kids ended up at the ER after rolling his vehicle on the rocky backwoods trails around Spy Hill. The only way she would ever ride one of the damn things was in the Lobster Festival parade, where nothing moved faster than five miles an hour.

  She slowly trailed Ry as he headed for a gleaming red motorcycle that looked like something out of a Batman movie. It was nothing like the Harleys or the cruising motorcycles that people sometimes parked in front of the Red Dory pub on the weekends. This one was a sleek Yamaha, and it looked super fast.

  “This one’s my baby,” he said, patting the black leather seat. “I race her as often as I can. And I’ll have a lot of time for that now, since I’m unemployed.”

  Claire had occasionally seen clips of motorcycle races on the news—ones where the rider leaned so far sideways through the curves that his kneepad was within a hair of scraping the pavement. The combination of high speeds and severe angles looked sickeningly dangerous.

  “Uh, do you have a death wish or something?” she blurted.

  He looked away for a moment, a slight frown crossing his face.

  Note to Brides Bay Concierges: avoid asking any personal questions.

  She quickly opened her hands in apology. “I’m sorry—that was a dumb thing to say. I suppose I react that way because I’ve never been able to understand why people do something so out there for fun.”

  His frown eased. “I get it, but the risks have payoffs. They make us feel like we’re alive—really alive, not just going through the motions. That’s what extreme sports are about.”

  That sounded crazy to her. Not knowing how to answer without risking he’d get pissed off, she pressed her lips shut.

  Stanley plopped down at his feet and gazed at her with almost an identical head tilt as his master. They both looked puzzled by her lack of response, although Stanley was probably just wondering why she wasn’t rubbing his head some more.

  “You mentioned that you paint,” Ry said. “Is that what makes you feel like your life is really worth something?”

  Claire’s art was her passion, but she’d certainly never thought of it in such dramatic terms. “Yes, that’s a big part of it. But a lot of things make me feel good. Like a sunny day.”

  She rubbed Stanley’s head. “Or spending time with a beautiful fella like this guy.”

  “If Stanley is all it takes, I envy you.” His eyes tracked over her shoulder.

  She hesitated, taking in the shuttered look in his dark gaze. “Do you miss hockey?” she finally asked.

  His attention returned to her. “Of course. The best feeling I ever had was when I was skating hard and my winger was staying right with me, both of us going so fast that the air rippled our jerseys and everything off the ice was just a blur. I’d see my guy break for the net, setting up to shoot after I gave him a perfect feed. All I had to do was thread the puck past the defenseman and lay it on my winger’s stick for us to score the goal. And I knew I could do it. We could do it. I never had a single doubt when I was in that zone. There was nothing like it.”

  His smile flashed brief and bittersweet. “No better feeling in the world. Making the pass to my buddy was better than scoring the goal myself.”

  Claire knew what it was like to be on top of your game, although that now seemed a distant memory.

  He rested a hand on the Yamaha’s seat. “At least I’ve still got my bikes. And now I’ve got racing too. It was actually my first love when it came to sports. I couldn’t race when I was still playing, of course. The teams always made me swallow that restriction as part of my contract.”

  “I can imagine.” Why would any team tolerate a star player risking injury on something as crazy as motorcycle racing?

  “Bastards,” he said with an amused snort. “Anyway, when I’m racing, I can push it right to the line. Really test my limits, you know? The only thing better than riding a bike is racing one.”

  “Is that truly the only time you feel alive now—when you’re pushing it right to the edge? That sounds so dangerous.” She offered up a wobbly smile, not wanting to appear like she was judging him.

  But you are.

  He scoffed. “It’s not like that. Sportbike racing isn’t nearly as wild as some people think. In fact, serious injuries are pretty rare. The racers know what they’re doing.”

  Nobody could convince her that blasting around a track at insane speeds, all bunched up in a tight pack of screaming machines, wasn’t risky as hell. Still, a funny sensation rummaged around in her chest. What would it be like to be so fearless, ignoring all the risks to do what you loved? That kind of courage seemed like a distant memory too.

  Not that motorcycle racers were the only people who deliberately courted danger. Her father had been a risk taker too, and look where it had gotten him—into an early grave in the little cemetery behind St. Brigid’s Catholic Church.

  Ry led her over to a black Harley-Davidson that sported enough gleaming chrome to make her eyes water. It even had a passenger seat with a backrest. For a moment, her mind flashed a mental image of a faceless woman perched on that seat, her arms clutched tightly around his broad, strong back.

  Don’t go there.

  “This one is my everyday bike,” he said. “I use it for going into town and taking lazy rides up and down the coast.”

  His gaze lingered over her. Wherever that happened, it pulled heat to the surface, making her feel flushed and warm. She had to resist the impulse to look away.

  Unexpectedly, he picked up the black helmet that was perched on the seat and held it out to her. Claire froze.

  “It’s a great day for a ride,” he said with a casual shrug. “We could take Route 1 up to Damariscotta. I found a nice coffee bar there. Then later, if you’re up for it, we could go a bit farther—maybe down to Christmas Cove. It’d be an opportunity to get to know each other. Hang out a for a while.”

  She stood there like an idiot, just staring at him. Ry radiated a ton of confidence, as if to say what woman wouldn’t want to take a ride with me?

  There were a dozen reasons why she should say no, including the fact that she’d rather run a cheese grater over her face than take a road trip on a Harley. Then there was the overriding issue of getting too close to a client. Wrapping her arms around Ry’s awesome body and hanging on for dear life as they whipped up coastal roads sounded pretty close to intimate.

  Why was he even asking her in the first place, since he’d made such a point of safeguarding his privacy?

  Of course, he might simply be trying to do something nice for her, or show her that he wasn’t a reclusive snob. Or maybe he was even issuing a bit of a dare. Daring her not to be some frightened little country bumpkin. Either way, she should say no, although she hated to risk that he might be ticked off by her rejection.

  Don’t be such a wimp, Claire.

  “I do love Damariscotta,” she finally said. “And it’s a good idea to talk a bit more about what you want from me. As your concierge,” she hastily added when his eyebrows lifted slightly. “But would you be okay if we took my car instead? Because motorcycles…well, I’m afraid they just aren’t my thing.”

  “Your thing? What’s that mean?”

  Claire shrugged.

  “Hey, if they scare you, just say so. Lots of people are afraid of powerful bikes.”

  “Oh, please forget I said anything. It’s a beautiful day and I’m sure you want to take a ride, so I should probably be heading back to town.” She started toward the door.

  “Hang on a minute.” He set the helmet down and caught up to her. “We’re all scared of something, but trust me when I say that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I might take some risks with my own life but never with yours or anybody else’s.”

  That might be true, but there was still no w
ay she was going to climb on the back of a Harley—not for him or any client, no matter how rich and important they might be. “I know you wouldn’t, Ry. And while it sounds like fun in theory, trust me when I tell you that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to get on a motorcycle.”

  She’d probably have a massive panic attack and throw up all over him. Wouldn’t that be a dandy way to impress the boss?

  He studied her for a few moments before unleashing a smile that transformed his expression from brooding to warm and slightly amused. “Okay, no problem. We’ll go in your car. You pay the gas, and I’ll buy coffee and lunch. And I think it’s a great idea to talk more about what I want from my new concierge.”

  By taking the Harley out of the equation, there was no way she could refuse. “That sounds like a great idea. We can get the business out of the way, and then—”

  He touched her gently on her lower back to get her moving. “And then we can have some fun.”

  * * *

  Ry was gazing out the open window, absently drumming his fingers on the roof of her car. They’d chatted for the first few minutes of the drive up the coast before he’d fallen silent, saying something only when she pointed out a local landmark.

  Maybe he was still annoyed with her for being such a baby about the Harley. Any woman in her right mind would have jumped at the chance to snuggle up to Ry Griffin, with his gorgeous bad boy looks. But most women hadn’t gone through what she’d had when a big black monster of a motorcycle roared around a corner and changed her life in one horrific instant. She’d survived the crash, but had suffered a broken leg and multiple severe contusions. Her best friend, strolling by her side, had died an hour later at New York Methodist Hospital.

  After four years, Claire had yet to fully shake the emotional pain and the nightmares that sometimes pulled her awake, drenched in sweat.

  She probably should have been straight with him about her past. But she hated talking about the accident, especially to someone she barely knew. People usually responded in awkward and often disconcerting ways. Most rushed to change the subject, though that was far preferable to the other reaction she frequently got—friendly advice on how to “move on.” It was a freak accident, people would say, caused by a drunk driver who was speeding. There was no reason to let someone else’s screw-up ruin your whole life.