Chapter One
“Sometimes, I have the dumbest ideas.” Bree Phelts wiped a trickle of sweat off her cheek as she struggled to move forward on the world’s most cumbersome bicycle. The mountain bike was not made for streets. It was made for going over rocks and down dirt trails and avoiding mishaps with moose and bears.
She huffed three times in quick succession, the helmet’s chinstrap cutting into her throat. Was it supposed to be tight enough to cut off her airway? It hadn’t felt that tight when she started out on the nice flat road in front of her house. The hill was going to kill her. She would be the only bike-hill fatality in the history of Schulenburg, Texas.
Maybe she should just get off and walk the stupid thing up the hill. Over the ridge and around the large oak tree was a level piece of ground that called to her like heaven itself.
“There’s always gonna be an uphill battle,” she gasped out in an effort to motivate herself with some good old sister music. “I’m always gonna …” There was no point in continuing the song. Conserve. Oxygen. The sound of her breathing drowned out the sound of her thunderous heartbeat. That was wrong. So wrong.
Her left leg wobbled. Poor old Lefty—she wasn’t as coordinated or as developed as her twin sister, Righty. Bree braced her right arm against the handlebar and pushed harder with her right leg, the thigh arguing substantially.
Take one for the team, she silently admonished her unhappy muscle group.If you’re still around at the end of this, I’ll buy us all the world’s biggest Blizzard at the Dairy Queen with marshmallow on top to help rebuild you.
Righty stopped screaming—she was officially numb.
Great. Progress.
Walking was becoming a serious possibility. The only reason she hadn’t climbed off the bike was pride. Bikers—cyclers?—stayed on, even on the tough climbs, and she was going to be a cyclist.
Sweat gathered everywhere. Was it possible to gathereverywhere? It had to be possible, because it was happening right here, right now.
Perhaps she should stop and regroup. But then, she’d lose her momentum—which wasn’t much of a loss, really.
Just past her asthmatic yak noises was the sound of wheels on pavement. A car. She moved over as far as she could without hitting the loose gravel on the side of the road to make room for oncoming traffic.
Instead of a car coming alongside her, it was another biker. The front tire was thin—road-racing thin—and humming along like they weren’t on the worst hill in Schulenburg. This place wasn’t called “Hill Country” for nothing.
She concentrated on keeping herself upright as the rider came into her peripheral view. He slowed down, being just in front and to the side of her now, and she got a good look at his red, white, and black biking pants with built-in padding on the rear end. Now there was a good idea! Her bottom was never going to be the same.
The stranger had a set of well-developed and beautifully defined muscles easily seen in his tight clothing. Men should not have chests bigger than hers. She didn’t have much of one, but still … Although his chest wasn’t shaped anything like a woman’s. Oh no. He had a chest like a cartoon character with his muscles clearly outlined under his shirt.
With considerable effort, her eyes lifted to his face. He’d turned to the side, dropping one hand from the handlebars and smiling at her. His attention allowed her to take in his trim beard in a variety of browns and blonds. Not that there were patches of color, but that the hairs were all individual colors.
Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, but even without seeing into them, she got the gist of his patronizing thoughts:Aren’t you cute for trying.
Would it be bad form to ram his back wheel right now?
He braked more, bringing them side by side. “Nice day for a ride.” His voice was deep, the kind of deep that women swooned in the wake of.
“Yep.” She could barely get the word out and loud enough for him to hear.Move along, muscle man. She kept her eyes on her handlebars, hoping he’d get the hint that she wanted to be antisocial.
“You could shift and get more torque.”
She glanced up, wondering if her shy personality type was meeting its archenemy: Outgoing Optimist Man.
Just below the beard line on his cheeks was a set of dimples. Why a person would hide dimples was beyond her. Dimples were meant to be displayed and adored by the entire world.
He smiled a perfectly straight smile. His lips didn’t curve up as much as they stretched to the sides. If she had the ability to do more than keep herself upright on this two-wheeled death trap, she would have told him his smile reminded her of the pumpkin she’d carved in the third grade.
He was so lucky she was out of breath and suffering. If she had any breath, she would have used it to breathe words of fire at him. He’d pedal quickly away after she told him those tight shorts werecallipygousfor his figure and almost made it appear as if he wasgasconadingin them. Nothing like throwing a thesaurus at a person to get them to go away.
As it was, she could only gasp and respond, “Yep.” Her face was red, a pulse pounded under the skin covering her forehead and cheekbones.
The curve in the hill wasn’t much closer than it had been before. If the guy would spin those beefy thighs a little quicker and disappear around the bend, she could get off the bike and walk up the hill like God intended. Obviously when the good Lord created Bree, He didn’t plan for her to ride a bicycle. If only He would have told her that before she got the fool idea in her head to decrease her carbon footprint.
Instead of riding off into the sunrise like a good little uninvited guest, the muscle man looked at her hand to see if she’d shifted gears.
She stubbornly moved her thumb away from the lever.