The Christmas Wedding Ring (Hqn)

by Susan Mallery

  Molly tried to picture what it must have been like. “I’ve never even been to a motorcycle race.”

  “Then we’ll have to educate you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He looked down at her as she glanced up, and their gazes locked. Dark hair, dark eyes, handsome features. He was walking, breathing temptation, she thought. And nice. She had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from smiling, aware Dylan would want to know what was so funny and that he would hate being called nice.

  “You never came back,” she said to change the subject. “Once you left town, you were gone.”

  “There was nothing to come back to.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. He wore a long-sleeved burgundy shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I thought about it. Coming home, I mean. But to what? I doubt anyone even noticed I was gone. The road was a nice distraction.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Yeah?” He gave her a quick smile. “I remember my first win. Some Podunk town in West Texas. There were twenty of us and I was in the lead from the start. I nearly lost it on the first curve, what with all the excitement, but I hung on and won.”

  “And then there were a billion women hanging on you.”

  Dark eyebrows rose. “That’s a slight exaggeration. There might have been one or two.”

  “I think there are always one or two hanging around wherever you go.”

  “It’s not what you think, Molly.” He opened a door for her, and they stepped into a shop with luxurious hand-knit goods.

  “Those women aren’t interested in a relationship. They want to spend the night with a winner. Names aren’t always exchanged. It gets old real fast. That was the toughest part of the road. Traveling all the time, not being able to keep in touch with friends. I was never successful enough to have a crew. I moved around with Bill’s guys sometimes, but a lot of the time, I was on my own.”

  He stopped at a rotating stand draped delicately with wool and silk pashmina scarves. He fingered a gray one with white skulls. “Evie’s into skulls. Think she’d like this?”

  “I don’t know her, but it’s very ni—” She swallowed when she saw the price tag. “It’s over three hundred dollars.”

  “It’s soft.”

  He draped it over Molly’s shoulders. He lifted her braid out from under the scarf, fingers brushing the back of her neck. Her breath caught, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice the goosebumps his touch had caused.

  “I don’t think skulls are you,” he said, “but other than that, what do you think?”

  It took her a moment to realize he was asking about the scarf. “It’s very luxurious. I don’t know any woman who wouldn’t love to have one of these.”

  She waited while he paid for his purchase, and they went back outside.

  “Where did you go for Christmas when you were racing?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t go anywhere. I just hung out wherever I was.”

  “It sounds a little lonely.”

  “It was.”

  Molly mulled that over. She wouldn’t have thought Dylan would ever have cause to be lonely. He was the kind of man who naturally drew people to him. Of course, he spent a lot of time shutting people out, as well, so she supposed it made sense that he didn’t have a lot of hangerson. So they had something in common. In fact, they had more in common than she ever would have guessed.

  “What do you do for Christmas now that you’ve settled in one spot?” she asked.

  He paused, as if not sure how much he wanted to share, then said, “I get invitations, but I don’t want to horn in on someone’s family time.”

  “You spend Christmas all by yourself in that big house?”

  “It’s not a tragedy, kid. It’s just one day a year.”

  It was more than that, and even sadder somehow because he didn’t realize what he was missing. She could tell he was starting to get uncomfortable, though, so she changed the subject.

  “Tell me how you got from racing to designing bikes.”

  He looked at her. “Why all the questions?”

  “I’m interested. We’re friends, right? Friends want to know about each other’s lives. Or am I treading on something personal?”

  “I think I can share a few of my secrets with you, but you have to promise not to tell.”

  His voice was light and teasing. It seemed to skitter down her spine and made her shiver in the most delightful way.

  “I swear.” She made an X over her heart. “I will take your design secrets to my grave.”

  She shivered again, but this time it wasn’t from delight. That had been a poor choice of words. She pushed the thought aside and concentrated on Dylan. “So there you were,” she said, “a young stud muffin on the trail to victory. One night you heard a voice saying, ‘If you build the motorcycles, they will come.’“

  He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and glared at her. “Stud muffin?”

  “It’s a term of endearment.”

  “Stud muffin? I’m not some male bimbo.”

  “By using the word ‘male’ to differentiate, are you saying the term ‘bimbo’ is female by definition?”

  He groaned. “You’re the one calling me a stud muffin, so why am I in trouble?”

  “Just luck.”

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I’ll let the stud muffin crack go if you’ll ignore the gender issue of bimbo. Deal?”

  “Yes. Now, tell me about designing.”

  “Only if we can go get some lunch. I’m starved. What about that place?” He pointed to the restaurant at the end of the street, which was decorated like a gingerbread house.

  “It’s fine.”

  They started walking toward it. Once they were inside and seated, they scanned the menus, then ordered.

  “I was just helping out a buddy at first,” Dylan said, leaning back in the booth. “He knew what I’d done to my bike. He was having some trouble with his, so I took a look at it, made a couple of modifications. Then he won the next three races. Word got out. I made more changes, then I worked up my first design.”

  “Sounds like a labor of love.”

  “It was. Things were slow at first. I didn’t have any money, no savings. That would have been sensible.” He grinned and she smiled in return.

  She liked hearing about his past, learning how things had changed for him.

  “Seven years ago my bikes started winning regionally. Five years ago, we took the national championship. I opened the business with less than no money. Just a lot of sweat and a couple of orders. It was tough at first, but I loved it. I built the first dozen bikes on my own. I was next door to a machine shop and would use their equipment to make some of the parts. It was crazy.”

  “But fun.” She could see the remembered pleasure in his expression.

  “Yeah. Those were good times.”

  “You showed them all.”

  The waitress appeared with their sodas. They thanked her and she left.

  “I would guess most everyone back home is surprised,” he said. “No one thought I would amount to much. Not even me.”

  “You have come a long way,” she agreed. “Look at your house. It’s amazing.”

  He peeled the paper off his straw and shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. “I know it’s kinda big for one person.”

  “Kinda! You could house a small army in it. Dylan, you have an indoor stream and pond. That house belongs on a movie set, not in someone’s life.”

  “I know. It happened to be for sale when I was looking. I got a really good deal.” He looked like a kid explaining why he’d eaten Santa’s cookies. It hadn’t been his fault, they’d just been there, calling to him.

/>   “Uh-huh. Like I believe that. But that’s not the point. You don’t have to justify your house to me. You earned it.”

  His expression turned serious. “I think that’s why I bought it. Because I could. It’s a long way from that ugly, dark trailer I grew up in. I hated that place. All I wanted was to get away. When I was a kid, that meant being gone all the time.”

  “But you didn’t leave after you graduated from high school.”

  “I couldn’t. When my dad died, I didn’t want to leave my mom. She was drinking so much I knew she wouldn’t last long.” He took a long swallow of his soda. “She didn’t. Then I stuck around for Janet. Once that ended, there was nothing to keep me in town.”

  Molly had heard the stories—everyone in town had. That both Dylan’s parents drank. That his father beat both mother and child. That visits to the emergency room for treatment of lacerations and broken bones were not uncommon.

  No wonder he didn’t seem to mind spending Christmas alone.

  She wanted to reach out to him but didn’t know how. What was she supposed to say? That she understood? She didn’t. Even though her past had been less than perfect, it was nothing compared with his childhood.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed at last.

  “Me, too, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I think about the drinking. They say it can be genetic, so I watch it. I partied some when I was younger, but now I have a couple of beers a week. That bottle of Scotch we’ve been sharing is the first hard liquor I’ve had in two or three years. I don’t worry about it, but I also know not to tempt fate.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  He looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes. For that second Molly wanted to know what he was thinking. But then she dismissed the idea. She only wanted to know if he was secretly lusting after her person. And that was so incredibly unlikely that she had to smile to herself. Probably Dylan had simply spotted the waitress with their orders.

  As if the fates wanted to prove her point, the woman appeared at the side of the table and set plates in front of them. “Eat up,” she said. “But save room for dessert. We’ve got banketstaaf, a traditional Dutch Christmas pastry, freshly made this morning. The pastry is so light, it’ll melt on your tongue.”

  “Sounds great,” Dylan said, picking up his sandwich.

  Molly stared after the waitress. “Maybe I’ll just watch you eat yours.”

  “Don’t you want dessert?” he asked.

  “Of course. It’s just...” Her voice trailed off. “There is the issue of these extra twenty pounds.”

  “Is one dessert going to make that much difference?”

  Rather than answer, she took a bite of her sandwich. It was crazy, she told herself. What had she expected? That he would deny she needed to lose weight? But if the knot of disappointment in her chest was anything to go by, that was exactly what she’d hoped for. As if Dylan wouldn’t notice the extra pounds on her frame. Compared with his usual women, she was a toad. A large toad. Maybe a cow. She could moo at him and see if he reacted.

  Stop it! she told herself. She wasn’t going to get all weird about his reaction and she wasn’t going to risk wallowing in self-pity. She knew the danger of that. The reality was, she needed to lose some weight. Of course Dylan noticed, but so what? What did it matter? They were still friends. He still liked her. Even if she suddenly lost the twenty pounds, she wouldn’t be the kind of woman to make him lose control. She had to remember that she was the one with the crush, not he.

  They chatted about different things during lunch. When the waitress returned, Molly went ahead and ordered dessert. Dylan ordered an apple fritter and announced that they would share. Molly nodded her agreement.

  This was enough, she thought. These bits of happiness were the entire point of life. That was what she had to keep remembering.

  * * *

  Molly leaned back against the counter in the winery and took another sip of her glass. “You know,” she told him, “we’re on a motorcycle. There’s no way we can actually buy any wine, even if we fall in love with it. Where on earth would we put it?”

  There was color in her cheeks and her smile was as easy as he’d seen it. Dylan wanted to believe it was more than the fact that they’d been sampling wine for nearly an hour. He wanted to believe that their time together had helped her deal with her life. But he didn’t think he would be able to take all the credit. It was definitely the wine.

  “We can buy a couple of bottles,” he said. “You’re right. There’s no room to take them back with us. But we can drink them while we’re away.”

  Molly frowned. “I don’t want to create any trouble.”

  It took him a couple of minutes to figure out what she was talking about and then he realized she meant the story of alcoholism in his family. “I think I can handle sharing wine with you for a few days.”

  She finished the sample in her glass and set it on the counter. “The Merlot is very nice,” she said.

  He nodded at the woman who’d been serving them. “We’ll take two bottles of that and three of the Chardonnay.”

  “Hmm, you read my mind,” Molly said, then pressed a hand to her forehead. “I feel a bit wobbly. It’s barely four in the afternoon and I’m drunk. Talk about a lightweight.”

  “It’s not the time of day that’s the problem,” he told her. “It’s the fact that you’ve had the equivalent of less than two glasses of wine. At least you’re a cheap date.”

  “Everyone needs a skill,” she said. “So I guess that’s mine.” She blinked as if to clear her vision.

  “Okay, let’s walk this off,” he said, then took her arm and glanced at the salesperson. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll wrap up the wine,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  Dylan led Molly outside. There were several trees by the gravel parking lot, along with wooden picnic tables.

  “Let’s go sit in the shade,” he said, guiding her toward the benches.

  “We can sing camp songs. I’m not sure how many I remember, but we can make up words.”

  “At least you’re a happy drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk.” She glared at him, obviously indignant. “If I were drunk, I’d be throwing myself at you.”

  He thought about the motorcycle ride over, how Molly had felt behind him on the bike, her body all pressed up against his. “I wonder if there’s a liquor store in town and if they carry tequila,” he muttered.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Sit.” He held her arm until she’d lowered herself to the bench, then he took a seat on the bench across from hers, using the table as a backrest.

  “I’m really not drunk,” she said.

  “I know. You’re just happy.”

  She thought about that one, then nodded. “You’re right. I’m happy and I haven’t been happy for a long time.” She leaned back and rested her elbows on the table behind her. “You’d think if I was engaged that Grant would have made me happy, but he didn’t.” She paused. “What a slug. A slime. A slithery snake of a scorpion. A slippery, smelly, s—”

  “Molly?”

  “Huh?” She stared at him. “I was using s words.”

  “I got that. We all understand that Grant is not a nice man.”

  “He’s a complete jerk.”

  Dylan chuckled, then waited to see if they were going to go through t words next, but Molly didn’t offer any more. Instead she stared up at the sky. Her position—arms spread, elbows nearly at shoulder level—thrust out her breasts in his general direction. He tried not to look, but it was way too tempting. She wore a sweatshirt. The garment was loose enough to hide the curves, but he knew they were there. That they w
ere and he couldn’t see them was driving him crazy. Everything about her was driving him crazy. But he liked it. He liked the wanting and not having. He liked being with her. He just liked her. The truth was, he didn’t have many friends in his life and he was glad to count Molly as one of the few.

  He looked at her face and caught her studying him. “What?” he asked.

  “I was just wondering. A few days ago you asked me why I wanted to go away for a couple of weeks. What’s your reason, Dylan? Why did you leave everything in your world to come away with me, especially right before Christmas?”

  “That’s easy. I have some decisions to make and I’m not sure what to do. I thought time away would help me decide.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Black Lightning.”

  “Your company? I thought it was doing really well.”

  “It is. We’ve got more work than we can handle. We’re turning customers away every week. We’ll be expanding soon, but I don’t want to do it too quickly because I’m concerned about quality control. That’s number one with me. I’m trapped in the office more than I would like, so I don’t get to spend much time on the floor. I haven’t been doing much designing lately, either. The problem is, a big motorcycle company wants to buy me out. They’ve promised me a place in the corporation, my own design staff and lots of money. I would get to do what I love, but I would lose control. That’s what it comes down to, really. Money versus freedom. If I take the offer, am I being smart or selling out?”

  “Good question. What does your gut tell you?”

  “Right now it’s keeping quiet.”

  “Bummer.” She stretched her arms over her head, then let her hands fall into her lap. “Want to know what I think?”

  Surprisingly, he did. Suddenly her opinion was very important to him. “Yes, I do.”

  “Does the money matter? I’ve seen your house. You’re not exactly poor.”

  He laughed. “Agreed. Personally, I’m doing well. Some of the appeal of their offer is that I would get to expand right now. I’ll get the capital and have the time to keep everybody honest. If I wait, who knows how long it will be until I can find the time and money to grow like that.”