Ready to Fall

by Olivia Dade

  “Okay.” After a moment of thought, he reached for his tools again. “But why don’t I lower the seat a bit for you first? Like I said, the bike will be harder to pedal. But if it makes you more comfortable, so be it.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “That sounds great.”

  “Should have lowered it from the beginning.” Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he added, “The customer’s always right, after all.”

  A reminder to himself, disguised as conversation. And if she studied his face a little too long after he said it, he didn’t care enough to ask why.

  After she’d retreated back to her worktable, he fiddled with the seat. For some reason, the muscles in his shoulders had bunched into tense knots, and he kept fumbling with his tools. But after a minute, he’d managed to adjust the seat height to a place where she should be able to touch the ground on her tiptoes.

  “Get back on the bike,” he finally said, bracing the frame. “This should feel better.”

  It did. He could tell from the relieved smile she aimed his way when she climbed back onto the seat. Even after a minute up there, her breathing stayed steady. He couldn’t see any signs of incipient panic.

  “With this new seat position, I think my chances of surviving the bike trip are now seventy-thirty. Thank you, Chris,” she said.

  “No problem. Put your feet on the pedals.” He had a firm grip with both hands on the frame. There was no way the bike was moving an inch while he was holding it.

  Biting her lip, she cautiously raised her feet and rested them lightly on the pedals.

  “How does it feel? Are the handlebars at a good height?” he asked.

  “It feels like I’m sitting up in the air with my ass impaled on a tiny triangle of hard plastic.” Her lips quirked. “But the handlebars are fine.”

  “Let me do one last inspection, and then I think we’ll be ready to go outside for your lesson.” Still holding the bike steady, he took a good look at her position in the seat. A very good look. His eyes seemed stuck there, actually, immobilized by the glory of Sarah’s soft, round ass.

  After a minute, she wiggled a bit on the seat. He jumped, and his eyes flew up to meet hers. She looked amused, and he could feel a flush heat his cheeks.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Just making sure you were sitting the right way.”

  “I’m pretty sure sitting will be my greatest cycling talent. Unlike every other aspect of riding a bike, I have a lot of experience doing it.” She waited for a moment, and then asked, “Can I get off now?”

  “Get off?” He blinked at her. “Um . . . yes. You can get off the bike. Let’s start loading everything we need into our cars.”

  She climbed off without incident. And then, her gaze steady on him the whole while, he busied himself with putting away his tools and reining in his dirty thoughts.

  If Sarah mentioned getting off again, he was going to embarrass himself. He knew it, but he couldn’t control his visceral reaction to her innocent words. Which was why, when his phone rang, he jumped on it like it was a winning lottery ticket. He didn’t care who was calling. His mom again, his older sister, a solicitor, whoever. He’d take any distraction he could get.

  Instead, it was Wes. The Niceville mayor had become Chris’s closest friend over the past few months, as well as frequent company on long rides.

  He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder as he continued to put away his tools. “What’s up?”

  Wes didn’t bother to make small talk before getting to his point, which Chris appreciated. “Hey, man. Helen and I are heading to Nice Rack for a beer.” There was a muffled protest in the background. “Correction. I’m heading to Nice Rack for a beer, but Helen is getting a strawberry daiquiri. Because she enjoys being stereotypically female.”

  Another, louder protest, which continued in the background as Wes spoke. “She wants me to note that she enjoys a variety of books and movies often associated with men. Including a recent book where the hero didn’t encounter a woman the entire time. Though he did end up naked with a bunch of shape-shifting miners on Neptune who gave him a bl—”

  Wes cut himself off, sounding both amused and disgruntled. “Baby, that’s not an appropriate story to tell Chris over the phone.”

  After the sound of a struggle, Helen’s voice came on the line. “Is Sarah still there?”

  Chris glanced at the woman perched on his worktable, swinging her legs and watching him. “Hi, Helen. Yeah, she’s here.”

  “I haven’t seen her since a library training session last week,” Helen said. “Both of you need to come keep us company. Or else the next time I see you, I’ll tell you the rest of that story about the miners. In detail. Spermy, spermy detail.”

  He cringed. “Hold on a second.” Muting the phone, he turned to Sarah. “Wes and Helen want us to meet them at Nice Rack. Do you want me to say yes or no?”

  Her head tilted, her lips pursed in thought. “I can go either way. What do you think?”

  Honestly? He thought he was a goddamn idiot to even consider going to Nice Rack with her. The whole thing smacked of a double date, despite Sarah’s protestations that Helen wasn’t trying to play matchmaker. Keeping an emotional distance from Sarah, treating her as just a customer—it would be close to impossible in that sort of environment. He knew it already. And it wasn’t as if he loved making conversation and navigating large crowds these days.

  But the thought of sitting thigh to thigh with Sarah, if only for a single night . . .

  Well, he was only human, after all. A human who’d recently discovered a distinct fondness for blondes with curly hair, ample asses, and theatrical tendencies.

  “If we go, we won’t have time to ride your bike outside tonight. Though we do have two more nights to work on that, so . . .” He trailed off, unsure if he wanted her to take his bait or not.

  Her blond ponytail bounced as she hopped down from the worktable. “I’m in. Tell Helen we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And that if she doesn’t have a Diet Coke waiting for me, I’ll assume she no longer wants to be my friend.”

  He unmuted the phone. “We’ll be there in a few. And Sarah wants—”

  “A Diet Coke. I know. Or else she’ll assume I’ve abandoned our friendship.”

  The grin that spread across his face was beginning to feel more and more natural. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  Helen laughed. “See you soon.”

  Regret flooded him as soon as he disconnected the call. What the hell was he doing? Hadn’t he learned his lesson about getting involved with women who wanted other men?

  He picked up his phone again. And an instant away from calling Wes back and canceling their plans, he caught a glimpse of Sarah. She was bending over to get her purse, her ass high in the air and faithfully outlined in a pair of stretchy jeans. His mouth went instantly dry, while his cock went instantly hard.

  So he had an immediate answer to his question. No, he clearly hadn’t learned his lesson. And at the moment, with the sight of that ass imprinted on his hungry male brain, he couldn’t bring himself to give a single, solitary fuck about it.

  5

  Halfway to Nice Rack, Sarah’s phone buzzed. “Can you get that for me?”

  Chris leaned forward. His massive shoulders seemed to expand still further, filling all available space in her small SUV as he reached into the little storage area below the dashboard. Honestly, a man of his size needed a full-size truck. Or maybe a tank of some sort. But she’d insisted on driving, since she wouldn’t drink. She never did. Not after watching what alcohol had done to her mother over the years.

  Her little phone looked like a toy in his big hand. There was a moment of silence as he read the message on the screen, his brow furrowed. One of his feet tapped on the passenger floor mat, causing the heavy muscles in his thighs to shift rhythmically. Not that she was looking at those thighs in his broken-in jeans, of course. Or sneaking occasional peeks between those thighs to determine if Chris Dean was built to scale
all over.

  Sarah turned her attention back to the road before she drove them into a tree. “What’s going on?”

  “Helen texted.” He peered at the phone and read the message out loud. “‘Change of plans. Meeting at Minnie’s Mini-Golf. Call or text if that’s a problem. We’ll understand.’”

  Sarah groaned.

  “What?” Twisting in his seat to face her, he replaced the phone in the storage compartment. “I like mini-golf. I play to win.”

  “I like mini-golf too,” she began. “But—”

  He grinned. “Of course you do, Mini Mayhew. You have a better view of the ball than the rest of us, after all.”

  So he wanted to start playing a bit early, did he? Game on.

  “It’s true that I can’t crush people’s heads like grapes with my bare hands. Unlike others of us.” She shot him a meaningful look. “Others of us, I might add, whose size appears to be the result of a horrifying nuclear accident. You know, the type of accident that spawns supervillains and silo-sized ears of corn.”

  He laughed, the sound husky and intimate in the dark confines of her car. “I’m raising the white flag. No more short jokes, I promise. At least for now.”

  With a smug smile of satisfaction curving her lips, she decided to reward him for his prompt surrender. Besides, it’d be cruel not to prepare him for what he was about to see. “Minnie’s Mini-Golf used to have a certain female rodent as its theme.”

  He nodded in understanding.

  “Then came the lawsuit. Earl just—” She shook her head. “The owner was pissed. He decided to open another business, but for some reason, he didn’t want to shut down the mini-golf course either. Probably because it’s the only one in town. So he kind of... defaced it. And then let it deteriorate.”

  “Defaced it?”

  “You’ll see.” Her shoulders wiggled in a shudder. “The place is fucking creepy. I wonder why Wes and Helen decided to go there.”

  He reached for the phone again. “Should I text back and say you don’t want to go?”

  “Nah.” She reached over to pat his hand. “You’re here to protect me, you big mutant. And you really should see the place. It’s truly a landmark here in Nice County.”

  The warmth of his hand under hers made her skin tingle, and she withdrew quickly. For the rest of the ride, Chris didn’t say much. She didn’t either, distracted by thoughts of their evening together so far.

  When she’d arrived at his shop door with burritos in hand, she’d expected a long night of social awkwardness, punctuated by moments of knee-melting terror when she actually had to ride her bike. And it was true, Chris tended toward taciturnity. He maintained a hard shell, one that would keep away all but the most determined seekers.

  But he could leave that shell when he wanted to. She’d seen him emerge from beneath it a dozen times over the course of the evening. Most notably, when he’d talked to his mom and sister, who’d been spending the evening together at his mom’s house and watching a marathon of some cable TV horror series. He hadn’t participated much in the five-minute conversation, other than contributing an occasional grunt or an uh-huh. Actually, that wasn’t true. At one point, she’d distinctly heard him say Listen, pipsqueak, I’m sure we don’t have a cult here in Nice County that turns babies into goats. Which seemed bizarre, even to her. But she’d been too distracted by the lingering smile on his face to ask him about it after the call ended.

  No, he hadn’t said much to his family. He hadn’t needed to. The warmth and affection on his face, the adorable dimples denting his cheeks when he’d grinned—they’d said it all. He loved his family. Didn’t feel the need to protect himself around them.

  And when she’d had her little meltdown on the bike, he’d dropped any pretense of aloofness to come to her aid. The gentle touch of his hand on her cheek . . . well, she figured she’d still be feeling that in the morning.

  His concern for her safety and happiness had warmed her, probably more than it should have. The gruff man who’d greeted her at his shop door had shown his true self to her in that moment. Chris Dean might still be a quiet man under that shell, but he was gentle. Protective. Patient. Even funny. This whole evening with him had proven much more comfortable, more fun, than she could ever have imagined.

  Of course, she hadn’t actually moved an inch on her bike yet. The fun was probably going to screech to a swift halt and transform into sheer terror as soon as that happened.

  Speaking of terror... “Take a look at that sign, Chris. We’re rapidly approaching the Mini-Golf Course of Horror, selected as the number one place to commit murder by serial killers in Nice County for five years running.”

  His jaw dropped as he saw the sign, illuminated in the dark night by a spotlight from below. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “What the fuck did the owner do to Minnie?”

  “Earl cut off the ears and bow to avoid another lawsuit, painted on a mustache, and made her dress completely black.”

  “Is that . . .”

  She nodded. “Yup. Where he cut off the top of her head, he added a section so it looks like you can see her exposed mouse brain.”

  “I . . .” Chris turned back to her, blue eyes wide. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just wait till you see the course.” She parked the car next to Wes’s truck. Other than a small compact car that probably belonged to whoever was running the course tonight, they were the only vehicles in the lot. Not a shock, considering. “I heard a location scout once picked it for a horror movie, but the studio backed out at the last minute.”

  “Why?”

  “There was some concern about giving the crew nightmares.” Her lips twitched. “Also, I think they wanted a more exciting base of operations for the shoot than Niceville. Go figure.”

  Opening his door, he stepped out onto the cracked pavement. “Come on. How scary can it be?”

  “You’ll see.” At the sight of the windmill in the distance, she shuddered again. “Let’s hear what you have to say after an hour in the creepiest place on Earth.”

  * * *

  Just short of an hour later, Chris turned to Wes and pointed at his friend with the broken end of his club. The jagged metal—the parts not covered with rust, at least—gleamed in the dim light of the course. Wisely, Wes backed up a foot or two, taking Helen with him.

  “Explain to me why we’re here again, dude,” Chris demanded. “Because I thought Sarah was exaggerating about this place, but she wasn’t. For once. Are you trying to get us killed?”

  Sarah glared at him. “Hey! That was uncalled for.”

  Helen giggled. “For once.”

  “I told you.” Wes sighed. “Earl had to close his car wash, so he wants to make a go of the course again. He doesn’t have any money to make improvements to it, but he needs customers. At the last city council meeting, he asked us to come. I promised I would, so . . .” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Here we are.”

  Chris eyed the last hole of the course with suspicion. It featured a huge wooden windmill in the middle of the players’ path. To get to the end of the hole, they’d need to duck through the doors of that rotting structure and walk through its lower level. Even though it was no longer lit inside. Or particularly clean.

  “No way I’m letting Sarah step foot in that fucking thing.” Chris turned away from Wes, poking at the steps leading to the windmill door with his club. “It’s too dark to see what’s in there. What if someone put a bear trap on the floor? Or some rabid squirrels made a nest?”

  Turning away so Chris couldn’t see her face, Sarah stifled a giggle. Minnie’s Mini-Golf had clearly rattled the big lug. After the first hole, he’d begun guiding her along the paths between each hole with a gentle hand at the small of her back, as if concerned about her losing her way or getting injured. Once they’d hit the back nine, he’d even started scanning their surroundings with narrowed eyes, as if anticipating some sort of sneak attack. And he kept the broken end of his club held out in front of the
m like a lance whenever they moved to another hole.

  It was sweet, really. He was protecting her from the mini-golf course, just like the heroes of legend.

  Wes rolled his eyes. “A bear trap? You’ve been hanging out with Sarah too long. Earl wouldn’t risk another lawsuit.”

  Without another word, Chris raised a massive foot and stomped on the first wooden step leading up to the windmill opening. The step promptly collapsed, splintering into several sharp pieces.

  Wes sighed again. “You’ve made your point, man-beast. But there’s no good way to get around the damn thing. Not without backtracking along the entire course. And that would mean crossing the bridge again, which I don’t think any of us wants to do.”

  “We could climb over the fence,” Chris suggested.

  “Um . . .” Helen pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but not all of us come from a race of mutant giants.”

  Sarah turned to her friend, beaming. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I was telling him earlier tonight. It’s like he’s the product of a nuclear accident. One that resulted in really tall, really huge, really hot men.”

  Oh, fuck. I said too much. He shouldn’t know how sexy I think he is.

  But she couldn’t really regret it, not when she saw Chris’s dimples peek out.

  “Really hot men, huh?” He bent down and kissed each of his substantial biceps. “You forgot to mention how strong mutant giant-men like me are, too.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “You’re such a guy, Chris. Jesus.”

  “Guilty as charged.” He took a moment to survey the path back to the hut where they’d picked up their golf clubs and balls. He nodded to himself, as if he’d reached some sort of mental decision. Then he turned to her, deepening his voice to a rumbling rasp. “Me tall, strong mutant-man. You tiny shrimp-woman. Me get you off of scary fucking mini-golf course without going back over rickety bridge.”

  The next thing she knew, he’d scooped her up into his arms and was lifting her—fucking lifting her—over the neck-high metal fence surrounding the course. Well, neck-high on her, at least. On him, it barely came up to his chest.