A handful of cars were in the gravel lot behind the inn. Denver bypassed them and pulled right on up to the barn, to a patch of pavement. At his signal, she slid off, using his shoulder for balance again and feeling a little rubber-legged as she stood on her own. He swung his leg off the bike and put down the kickstand before tugging his helmet off.
She did the same. “That was amazing.”
There went the grin again. “I thought you might like it. There’s nothing like feeling the buffet of the wind and the freedom of the open road.”
The feel of the wind. Yeah. Let’s go with that instead of the feel of your abs.
Feeling her cheeks heat, Misty looked back toward the house. “Do you think we should go let them know we’re here?”
“I talked to Kennedy at work. She already knows we’re coming. Said to do whatever we needed to do.”
Of course he had.
Misty took off the jacket and laid it over the seat. They hung the helmets on the mirrors and strode inside. He turned all business, pulling a tape measure out from somewhere and getting her to hold the other end as he measured the space, tapping the details into his phone. They discussed placement and height, even lighting. And all the while, Misty watched the easy flex of those shoulders in his T-shirt and remembered the look of him as he’d vaulted over her counter like it was nothing. When was the last time she’d been this aware of a man?
The sensation didn’t abate as they rode back to town. She enjoyed the return trip more, feeling confident that they weren’t going to end up as smears on the pavement. And she saw what he meant about the feel of the wind and the open road, though his body served as an effective windshield for her. She toyed with a question in her mind. By the time they pulled back up in front of her shop, she’d made a decision.
She wanted to know more.
Dismounting with more grace than she’d managed the first time, she pulled off the helmet and shook out her hair like she’d seen in the movies. When the baby roses, now crushed, rained down like some kind of floral dandruff, she figured that had ruined the effect. But it didn’t curb her intent.
“Thanks for the ride. It was a lot of fun.”
He sat astride his steel horse—Bon Jovi, eat your heart out—and rested his forearms across the handlebars. “Glad you enjoyed it. I’ll be getting started on the arbor tomorrow.”
Can I come see your workshop? Would he think that was a euphemism? She really did want to see his workspace and how he brought his vision to life. She’d toured more than a dozen different spaces of the artisans whose work she carried. Customers loved hearing little details about how a piece had been created. But this wasn’t about her shop. She really just wanted to get to know more about him. So she took a different tack.
“Would you like to come to dinner?”
“I like food,” he said equably.
Misty’s lips twitched. “Then how about you tell me what night works for you, and I’ll introduce you to some of mine.”
“Pick any night.”
“What about your shift at the Tavern?”
A flash of humor lit his eyes. “I’ve got an in with the boss. You let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”
She did a quick mental review of her calendar. The early part of the week was slammed, but by midweek she’d be done with the flowers for the monthly Pilot Club ladies’ luncheon. “Wednesday? Say seven?” That would give her time to get home after closing, do some last minute cleaning, and get whatever she was cooking going.
“Sounds good.”
Misty gave him her address. “You should bring Oscar. I’ve got a fenced yard. There’s room for him to romp with Moxie.”
One brow quirked up. “Does Moxie have enough energy to romp?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Denver nodded. “All right, then. Oscar and I will see y’all on Wednesday.”
Misty lifted her hand in a wave and waited until he’d cranked the engine again before saying, “Can’t wait.”
~*~
“Pretend you have manners, okay? We’re trying to impress these ladies.”
Oscar plopped his butt down on Misty’s front stoop and, tongue lolling, tipped his head back to look at Denver, as if to say, See, I got this. One ear flopped over his eye, making him look a lot more like trouble than a canine gentleman. With a little prayer that the mutt remembered his training, Denver held out the gift bag. Oscar clamped the handle between his teeth and turned back to the door, his baseball bat of a tail wagging so hard, it swept the fro