Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4)

by Lilian Monroe

  “Mac Blair is the motorcycle man?” Dorothy screeches. She turns to Margaret, then swivels her head back to me. Then she squeals and jumps. “Yes! Mac Blair is the motorcycle man!”

  “Excuse me, Belinda.” I walk away from her, angling toward the women in front of me. “Ladies. Can I help you?”

  “Don’t know who you’re calling a lady, but I’m hoping it’s not this old hag,” the short woman, Agnes, says, jerking her chin at Dorothy.

  I frown. “Um…”

  “Oh, don’t mind her.” The pixie-cut lady with purple reading glasses around her neck grabs my elbow and yanks me closer. She peers into my eyes, then takes a step back and studies me from head to toe. Then she nods. “You’ll do.”

  “I’ll…do?”

  “What are we waiting for?” Dorothy cries. “Mac, we’re here for a drink. Lead the way.” She thrusts her arm toward the bar, then proceeds to lead the way herself.

  The five of us enter the Cedar Grove in a whirlwind of silver hair and animal print. My father is behind the bar counting the till while Lee, my younger brother and part-time fill-in bartender, wipes bottles down with a white cloth. They both look up and freeze. My father’s brows inch down over his eyes.

  “Ooh, moody,” Pixie Cut says. “I haven’t been in a dive bar in decades.”

  “What are you calling a dive bar?” my father growls, but there’s no bite to his words. His lips tip up as he meets my gaze, tilting his head in question. Who are they and why are you with them? his eyes ask.

  “She meant it as a compliment,” Margaret cuts in smoothly, looking utterly out of place in her peach pantsuit and pearls. “Didn’t you, Lottie?”

  Pixie Cut—Lottie—still has her arm hooked through my elbow. She leads me toward the bar and hums her agreement. “Of course it’s a good thing.” Propping her reading glasses on the end of her nose, she glances at the bottles on the wall before removing the glasses and looking at Dorothy. “I thought you said this place had good wine.”

  “This is what I was trying to tell you,” Agnes huffs. “She wouldn’t know it from vinegar.”

  “No, I said I hope they have good wine,” Dorothy says with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m thinking maybe I’ll just have bourbon.”

  Margaret groans. “Dor…are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Of course it’s not a good idea.” Dorothy plonks herself on a barstool right next to a grouchy old regular.

  “New friends of yours?” my father asks me with a grin while the other ladies take their seats. His eyes linger on Margaret, watching the way her fingers run over her pearl necklace while she peruses the beer-stained menu. Having her in here is like having the First Lady visit my father’s bar. She makes everything seem grubbier. Suddenly, I see every speck of dust, every bit of dirt, every beer stain and layer of old grease.

  “Something like that,” I answer, then glance over my shoulder and let out a long breath when I see Belinda hasn’t followed me in. I’ll have to buy the first round to thank these ladies for that.

  “We have full attendance for your class on Monday, Mr. Blair,” Margaret tells me. “The students can’t wait to learn from a talent such as yourself.”

  “Call me Mac. He’s Mr. Blair,” I tell her, gesturing to my father.

  My father really plays up his fading Scottish accent when he leans a broad palm across the bar to shake with her. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs…”

  “Margaret,” she replies, slipping her hand into his while she pats her hair with the other. “Call me Margaret.”

  “We should do shots,” Lottie states with a decisive nod.

  “Good idea!” Dorothy cries, while Margaret and Agnes bark out a “No!” in unison.

  “First round is on me,” I tell my father, who nods.

  “Oh, I like him,” Lottie says, lowering her reading glasses to look me up and down again. “I definitely like him.”

  “Have a little shame, woman,” Agnes huffs, but she gives me a long, assessing look just the same.

  Grinning, I meet my father’s gaze across the bar and nod toward the door. He gives me a slight dip of the chin while my brother surveys his new patrons with an arch of the eyebrow, and I slink out before the four ladies can crowd around me and tell me more about how “I’ll do.” Whatever that means.

  When I get outside, I poke my head out to check for a certain minivan, then slip out when I see the coast is clear.

  Then, grinning, I get back on my bike and ride.

  5

  Trina

  The weekend is spent hosting multiple kitten viewings for half the residents of Heart’s Cove. Toby and Katie are over the moon. Katie does, in fact, empty the litter box. There’s a deep wrinkle in her nose while she does it, but to her credit, my daughter doesn’t complain once.

  My car magically appears in front of the Four Cups Café sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning, to the delight of everyone in town. Candice calls me to let me know she has the keys, and I bite my lip when I see it, knowing—just knowing—it was Mac who left it here. Candice, of course, only gives me a mischievous grin when I ask her who dropped it off, which all but confirms it was Mac. And seriously—how thoughtful can one man be? Now I don’t need to figure out how I’ll pick my car up from the mechanic.

  I don’t quite have the courage to call or text him, though. Not right now. Maybe on Monday, once the kids are busy at camp and I have time to take a breath. After the pottery class. Maybe Tuesday, when I have free time. Just…later. I’ll do it later.

  But before I know it, I’m dropping the kids off at a nearby summer day camp and getting ready for a pottery class I never signed up for.

  What does one wear to a pottery class? Dorothy said old clothes that I don’t mind ruining, but I’m the type of person that has a strict policy on house clothes staying at home. I stand in front of my closet and finally choose a pair of loose khaki-green, drawstring-waisted pants that are somewhere between sweats and cargos, and a tight, white, cap-sleeved tee. My hair, which I curled yesterday and still has good volume, gets swept up in a high pony. I brush on a little makeup, then grab my purse, casual Converse shoes, and my favorite pair of oversized shades to complete the look.

  Okay, fine. Maybe I am high maintenance. But is that really a bad thing? I like clothes. I like makeup. I like looking nice. So what?

  I used to have to defend myself to Kevin all the time. He didn’t understand why I got manicures, why I spent my time blow-drying my hair, why I wanted to look stylish when I was going to the grocery store. He thought it was frivolous.

  Any time I tried to explain to him that it made me feel good to look good, he’d tell me he preferred me in sweats with no makeup on. As if his preferences on my appearance were more important than how I felt. These days, when I think back on my marriage, I wonder how much I settled for someone who didn’t really care about me, my thoughts, or my feelings. Is it any surprise he was unfaithful? I sometimes wonder if he ever saw me as my own person at all, or if I was just an accessory to his perfect life.

  Not to mention the person who would finally launch his career was a woman I’d met and befriended at the nail salon—did he acknowledge that maybe my manicures were a good thing?

  I’ll let you guess the answer to that one.

  Shaking my head, I find my mother humming to herself in the kitchen. “You coming?”

  She arches her brows. Her eyes glimmer with hidden delight, but I don’t have the time or the energy to figure out why. With my mother, sometimes it’s better not to ask. “Oh, no, honey, you go ahead. I’ll stay here and do some laundry.” She smiles, the mirth in her gaze softening into something warm. “You look gorgeous, Katrina.”

  At least my mother appreciates it. Smiling, I call out a goodbye and head to the Heart’s Cove Hotel.

  The art studio is at the back of the building, accessible through a lush, jungle-like courtyard. I find Candice, Simone, Jen, and Fiona in the lobby, and the five of us do the usual g
reetings and hugs, then head back toward the studio.

  I’ve been in town most of the summer, but it still feels weird to be accepted so seamlessly into a group of friends. I haven’t had girlfriends since college.

  “You okay?” Fiona glances at me as we walk. “You’re looking very serious for someone who’s about to have her hands covered in clay.”

  I force a smile and shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” When she arches her brows, I let out a laughing huff. “Fine. I’m nervous. I haven’t done anything artistic in years. It’s silly, I know, but it’s true.”

  She’s quiet for a few steps, then her lips curl into a smile. “You know, my first couple of hours in Heart’s Cove were spent in this studio. That’s how I met Grant.” Her eyes glimmer. “I was so completely overwhelmed, because I’m as far from an artist as you can get, but now I love it. There’s no pressure in there. You can be as bad or as good as you want. There’s no rules to creativity.”

  “Kevin used to mock my lack of artistic skills,” I blurt, then snap my mouth shut. I hadn’t meant to say that. But he did, didn’t he? Little snide comments whenever I’d try to join him in the studio in the early days. I stopped going after a year or so, and he never asked me back. Art was his thing, and I wasn’t invited.

  Fiona tuts. “Girl, one look at your face and I know you’ve got more creativity in your pinky finger than I’ve got in my whole body.” When I frown in confusion, she smiles. “Your makeup, Trina. It’s art.”

  “It’s not fair!” Simone says, turning around to grin at us. “I can barely manage to put mascara on without poking myself in the eye, and here you are looking like a million bucks.”

  My chest warms at their comments, even though I wave them away.

  Then we enter the studio, and I scream. Literally.

  Because Mac is there, wearing an old blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to show off his mouthwatering hands and corded forearms. He’s got a brown apron wrapped around his muscular body, and it looks positively sinful.

  The man wears leather, and I want to jump him. I never thought he’d look like pure sex in an apron.

  I was wrong.

  Mac’s face registers surprise, but it’s not the bad kind (I hope). He straightens up from the pottery wheel where he’d been positioning a stool and rakes his fingers through his hair, his eyes running down the length of my body.

  I—

  Wow. I want him to look at me like that every hour of every day for the rest of my life. It warms me from the inside out, makes me feel like the most beautiful, sexiest woman in the world.

  That’s when I realize that everyone else’s eyes are on me, too. Simone and Fiona look like they’re having the time of their lives, fighting grins behind raised hands. Jen lifts her gaze to the ceiling. Candice is just unabashedly laughing like the evil older sister she is.

  “Ladies,” Mac greets us in his deep baritone, eyes still on me. “Here for the pottery class?”

  “You’re Mr. Blair,” I say stupidly.

  Mac’s eyes gleam. “You know my name, Trina, but if you want to call me Mr. Blair instead, I won’t complain.”

  Now Simone is laughing too. Oh no. I turn my red face away from Mac and stare at the fiery-haired woman who’s quickly becoming a good friend, then shift my gaze to Candice. My sister just grins.

  There are a few students in the class I don’t know, and they’re all looking at me. Wonderful.

  Mac saves me by introducing himself to everyone and starting the class at a long table at the back of the studio, where a few bags containing rectangular chunks of clay are positioned at regular intervals around the table. After we all get situated with paint-stained aprons on, he instructs us to open the bag and use a wire to cut off a big hunk of clay. We massage it to get the air out, which feels like a workout and a half, then cut it again and roll it into four balls. Mac demonstrates as he talks.

  I was wrong about the tire changing. That wasn’t a show. This is a show. Those hands—I need help. I can’t stop watching them. My mouth waters as he handles the clay with confidence, shaping it into four equal-sized balls with a few expert movements. The slapping of his palm against the clay almost sounds like skin slapping against—

  Nope. Not going there. Not in public. Not right now.

  Then I realize everyone has already started, and all I’ve been doing is staring at Mac’s hands.

  With trembling movements, I make four wonky-shaped balls, then wrap them back up in the bag to stop them from drying out. We’re led over to the wheels set at equal intervals in a circle in the center of the studio, and somehow, with all the other ladies moving at light speed before I can grab a seat on the opposite side of the room, I end up sitting beside Mac.

  They seem totally impervious to my withering glares, avoiding my eyes as they take their seats. Jerks.

  So I sit, and I wait for Mac to start teaching…but I’m not prepared for what happens next. Turns out shaping the balls of clay was only the start of the show.

  “Place your ball in the center of the wheel. Smack it down hard.” Simone snorts, and Mac’s eyes flick to her, then to everyone’s clay. “Good. Pat it down a couple of times, then wet your hands and start your wheel. We’re going to center the clay, which will allow us to shape it into what we’re trying to create. If it’s off-center, you won’t be able to shape it properly. You’ll end up with one side thicker than the other.”

  I can’t look away as Mac takes those huge, broad hands and dips his long fingers into a small pail of water. His forearms flex as he shakes off a few drops, then Mac starts shaping the clay. He’s saying something, explaining the process of centering the clay, but all I can do is stare.

  Wet clay moves between his hands, smooth and sensuous. His fingers press, release, move like magic over the clay, making it dance up and down and through the gap in his hands. He cups the clay and shapes it in a smooth, tall—listen, there’s no other word for it—phallic shape. It looks like a massive grey dong on the center of his pottery wheel, and the sight of it makes me want to combust. I have to look away.

  My face is red-hot.

  Candice is biting her lip, and Simone’s face is as red as mine, except she’s not blushing. She’s trying not to burst out laughing. Traitor.

  With nothing else to do, I start centering my clay. It’s smooth, wet, and it feels calming to put my hands around it. Keeping my eyes firmly on my own wheel, I listen to Mac’s deep voice rumble through me as he gives instructions, encouragements, and tips.

  My clay wobbles. I chance a glance over at Mac and reposition my hands, wetting them, moving them over the smooth material. After a few moments, I think I’ve got it.

  Once the clay is centered, we start opening it. Mac demonstrates as he explains, but all I can do is watch the way those hands fondle the clay as a bowl appears on his wheel.

  My panties are wet.

  That’s so damn embarrassing. I’m turned on by the man doing pottery, for crying out loud. What is wrong with me?

  It’s just… I can’t even explain it. He’s just so capable. He shifts his fingers ever so slightly, and the opening in the center of his clay widens. Then he shifts again, with water and clay running over his hands as the wheel goes around and around and around, and he pulls the sides up as if he’s commanding the clay to move. Soft, gentle strokes. Firm touches. Stiff, muscular upper arms, with his elbows braced against his wide-spread legs.

  It’s erotic. Every movement. Every touch. Every focused, beautiful line of his face.

  Tearing my eyes away from the sex-on-a-pottery-wheel show, I try my hands at opening my lump of clay. It’s harder than it looks.

  Within a few seconds, there’s a warm presence at my back. Mac pulls his stool over next to mine. “May I help?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I reply, my voice a croak.

  Those gorgeous hands move closer, fingers pressed against my own, palms warm and broad against the backs of my mine. His touch is confident, warm, a
nd it sends my mind reeling.

  “Firm, even pressure works best,” he says, his head bent next to mine, so close his breath ruffles a rogue strand of hair.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Simone quips, and Fiona lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

  I don’t even have the brain capacity to look up and glare at them.

  Repeat after me: Murder is wrong. Do not murder your sister’s best friends. Murder will get you put in jail for the rest of your life, even if they deserved it.

  “Here, like this.” Mac moves his hands over mine again, showing me exactly how to move them to shape my lump of clay into a bowl. The clay responds to him, and so do I. I can barely breathe at the feel of his hands on mine, his sleeve brushing my arm, his thigh pressed against my leg.

  And our hands, wet. Touching. Stroking. Clay, cold and soft and malleable, moving exactly where he wants it to.

  I can’t breathe.

  He smells so damn good. I’m close enough to inhale it, bask in it.

  My heart thunders against my ribs, and it’s all I can do to watch…and enjoy. My insides clench around the painful emptiness between my legs, and I try to hide the way he makes me want to squirm. I want to squeeze my thighs together, but Mac tells me to brace my elbows against them, so I have no choice but to keep them spread wide on either side of the wheel. When he picks my hand up and shows me how to place it to pull up the sides of the bowl, my breath hitches.

  Mac notices. He glances at me, turning his head so his lips are only a couple of inches away from mine. Sinful, stormy eyes meet mine, then drop to my mouth. His gaze lingers, tracing the shape of my lips, and I almost expect him to kiss me.

  Then I remember we’re in a room with women who won’t think twice about teasing me for the rest of eternity, not to mention a bunch people I don’t know. I’ve been divorced for all of four days. I can’t kiss Mac. I can’t kiss anyone!

  I jerk away from him, gouging the side of my bowl in the process.