Damn, what was it about being twenty-nine and in possession of ovaries that made everyone assume you were desperate for a man? Her friends fixed her up with earnest pharmacist types who wanted to discuss the compatibility of their Life Goals, which interested her not at all, and now she was stuck with Tom, who apparently translated “ride with me” as “fix my flat tires and service my delicate lady parts.”
She couldn’t win.
The worst thing was, he was such an obnoxiously attractive man. The Tom Geiger in her mind’s eye had looked exactly like her father. And okay, maybe that hadn’t been very realistic, but who’d have predicted this guy with the south-of-the-border complexion, the black hair, and the chocolate eyes? Who’d have expected him to have a jaw you could crack walnuts on, or those long, thick eyelashes that would’ve looked girly on a less masculine face?
And then there was his body. The man had a serious Lance Armstrong thing going on under his T-shirt. His muscled forearms alone were drool-worthy, and the wide black bands tattooed around both of his biceps made him look dangerous and interesting, as if he had hidden depths.
Too bad his hidden depths concealed piranhas.
No doubt Tom Geiger was some women’s dream guy, but he wasn’t hers. With two broken engagements behind her, Lexie had given up on dream guys a few years back. These days, all her fantasies had wheels.
“Are you going to be like this all the time?” she asked.
“I just meant—”
“Yeah, I heard you. And my husband will be so relieved when I pass that information along.”
She gave herself a pat on the back for the brilliant improvisation. Sex problem: solved.
The furrow between Tom’s eyebrows deepened, and his eyes skipped to her right hand. “You don’t have a ring,” he observed.
“And you don’t have an ounce of tact.”
His lips twitched. “True.”
At least he knew. It made him marginally less awful. “What do you say we lay our cards on the table?”
A curt nod.
“You seem about as eager to ride with me as I am to ride with you.”
“Sounds about right.”
“But I don’t think it’s a great idea for me to do this trip by myself.”
Another nod, which she hadn’t expected. She’d thought he might make her explain. But then again, Tom had a sister. Maybe he understood.
“All I want is for you to camp where I camp and call my family if I have some kind of horrible accident.”
The pause before he answered couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for Lexie to give up. She’d be okay until she found a substitute for Tom. She was a people person by nature, and she definitely preferred company, but she could satisfy her need for conversation by talking to folks she met along the way. As for the nights in the tent, she had a book, and she could always read until she got so tired that—
“Fine,” he said, interrupting her internal pep talk. “But the second I find you somebody else to ride with, I’m taking off.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders. Strange that she should be so pleased to be granted his company, considering how little she liked him. But then, she’d planned to ride with Tom Geiger, and she always hated to change her plans. “Works for me. So can we dip the wheels and get started already? I want to get to Garibaldi today.”
With that deep frown between his eyebrows, Tom shook his head and said, “Knock yourself out.”
Lexie pushed her bike across the sand, wishing she’d thought to unhook the trailer first. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to shove a fully loaded touring bike across loose sand. It was surprisingly difficult, actually. But she was going to dip her wheel in the Pacific, and three months from now she’d dip it in the Atlantic. That was that.
Tom had taken a pass. What was up with that? Everyone dipped their tire in the water. If the way this trip was starting out was any indication, he was going to be one hell of a wet blanket.
Not that it mattered. This was her adventure, and she was going to do it her way. She’d been looking forward to this day since before the training wheels came off her first bike. She and James had grown up on the stories of their parents’ TransAm adventures. In the summer of ’76, Mom and Dad and thousands of other Americans had dusted off their ten-speeds, thrown on some knee socks, and joined the cross-country party on wheels known as Bikecentennial. Having met in the saddle somewhere in Kansas, the Marshalls had been inseparable ever since.
For as long as she could remember, Lexie had wanted to retrace that journey—to see the country, meet new people, and prove she had what it took to grind through the miles. If one of the forms of fortitude the TransAm required of her was putting up with Tom Geiger, so be it. There wer
e worse things.
She reached the surf. She dipped. She turned around. The moment lacked some of the symbolic freight she’d hoped for—her tire-dipping daydreams hadn’t included the dead-seaweed smell of the surf or the raucous shrieks of gulls circling overhead—and she had to work hard not to blame Tom for that. He wasn’t actively sucking all the fun out of the first moments of her trip. He was just standing there, silhouetted against a dramatic backdrop of oranges and reds and purples. Standing still with his arms crossed and his head down, ignoring the sunrise and the beauty of the ocean. Scowling at the parking lot. Waiting for her.