Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

I wake up the next morning, look at my clock, and fly out of bed so fast I trip over my books on the floor. I forgot to set my alarm. I’m late. I’m a teacher! I can’t be late.

Call in sick.

The thought is so unbidden, I squash it and scramble for clothes.

A shout travels through my window. “Lia! Liiiiiaaaa!”

I’m hearing things. I grab a clean shirt and bra from my suitcase.

“Aurelia!”

Someone’s outside my window. That must be what woke me. I push open the glass, and standing in the courtyard, two stories down, is Terrence, smiling up at me like the sun just came out.

I don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or tell him to go away. “What are you doing here?” I’m too shocked to smile.

“Want to hang out today?” He hops on his toes, like an eager boy asking me to go to the playground.

“No, Terrence.” I shake my head, all sleepiness fading from my eyes. “I can’t. I have to teach.”

Remembering how late I am, I pull back inside. It’s cold, and I’m only wearing pajamas. I leaned out the window in a PJ top with no bra. And hard nipples. Damn it.

I don’t have time for this.

I can’t believe I forgot to set my alarm. This is so not me.

I really should call in sick.

The thought pauses my fingers and lifts a heaviness from my shoulders. I haven’t used a sick day since I arrived in October.

I can’t. That’s only for if I’m really sick. I can’t cut out on teaching—especially just to spend the day with a guy.

Once dressed, I stuff ungraded papers in my messenger bag, hop into shoes, and dash down the stairs, out the front door, and—

Bump into Terrence. “Argh, what are you doing?”

He clasps my shoulders, I look up at his face, and getting to school—doesn’t seem important anymore.

“Hi,” he says, with warm eyes and a soft voice.

“Hi.”

“You’re running late.”

“I slept in.”

“Take the day off with me.”

“What?” I retreat a step. I can’t think so close to him. “I have to get to class.” But my feet don’t move, and I can’t take my eyes from his. The way he looks at me—like I’m fascinating, valuable, sexy—I want to watch him do that all day.

I close my eyes and walk around him.

“You’re already late. Just skip.” His tone is so lazy and light, like a bath of calm in my frenzy.

I pause. “Why?”

He’s easy-going, in loose-fit jeans and a hoodie, his stance cocked, his hands in the sweatshirt pockets. He’s a bottled powerhouse, like a sleepy lion. Even after a week of racing, he stands with the self-assurance of a well-muscled athlete.

How could I
not
want to spend the day with that?

I may like this guy, but he is bad for me. Calling in sick is not something Aurelia does. Forgetting to set her alarm is not something Aurelia does.

“I bought you a bicycle.” He points to two of them propped against the building. “I thought we might go for an easy ride.”

I scoff. “Me, on a bicycle? That’s not a good idea.”

His brows furrow. “You know how to ride one, right?”

“Yes, but—you were exhausted last night. Don’t you need a day off or something?”

“If I take a day off, my legs will seize up. I have to ride some. I figured, why not with you?”

“Why not with—? I can’t, Terrence.” I like saying his name.

He saunters closer. “Can’t what? Call in sick? Or go for a ride with me?”

The closer he gets, the more I remember how amazing it was to kiss him. I can’t help my eyes straying to his lips.

He inches a hand toward my face and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “I promise to go easy on you.” His words tremble with humor and something else.

“I’ve never called in sick before.” My voice weak, I make no attempts to withdraw from him.

His knuckles brush my cheek. “It’s just one time. You won’t ever do it again.” His dimple pinches.

I think he might be teasing me, but he’s right. It’s just once. One time doesn’t make a habit.

He dangles his phone at me. “If you want to.” It’s a nice phone, a fancy, smart one.

“I don’t know the phone number.” I dig in my messenger bag, find the school number, dial it, and tell the receptionist in nervous French that I won’t be coming in to teach today.

I brace myself for a scolding, or at least some skepticism, but she makes a cooing sound and asks if I need a doctor. I give a fast denial, and the receptionist lets me off with an easy, “I hope you feel better soon.”

When I hang up, the back of my neck is sweating. This whole plan has flaws. I didn’t think this through. I could get caught.

“Okay?” Terrence holds out his hand for the phone.

Anxiety festers in my belly, and it’s all his fault. If anyone who knows me sees me out with him—if they tell the school, I could lose my Fulbright. “Why are you here? Why couldn’t you wait until this afternoon?” This isn’t why I’m in France. I’m supposed to be teaching!

“Maybe I didn’t want to wait.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip.

I smack his hand. “This is all your fault. I never do things like skip work and sleep late and go to parties and—and—” Make out on street corners in the middle of the night with strange guys.

“Lia, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. What if someone sees me with you? What then?”

“We’ll just have to get out of town fast, won’t we?” His tone is even, a negation to my spiking fear.

It irks me. He’s so calm when my life is falling apart. “You’re all wrong for me. Making me do bad things. Making me hate all the things I used to love. I haven’t wanted to read my books since I met you. Did you know that?” Yikes, this is turning into more than anxiety about playing hooky, but I can’t bear this anxious feeling. “I never did things like this until I met you. You’re messing with my life!”

He jerks back, his jaw grinding.

Oh shit.

That was mean.

He cracks his neck and speaks slowly. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Aurelia. You can tell me to fuck off anytime.”

It’s true. I could.

Anger mixed with something else spirals from his eyes. “Go ahead. Change your mind, go to work, tell them you’re feeling better. Who gives a shit.”

My anxiety deflates a bit. I could change my mind.

“If you don’t want to go for a bike ride, we can go sit in a café somewhere. Grab your books. I have magazines to read.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” That sounds boring. And going back to work sounds miserable.

I stand there and wait for it, his retaliating insult. He’s going to say something mean back to me, then walk away, like the last time, when I called him a stupid jock.

Except he doesn’t. He stays and watches me, waiting for me to speak.

And I’m struck with—I want this. I want to skip work and go on a bike ride with him. Me hating my job and my books is not his fault. It’s all me. I’m scapegoating him. “I’m sorry.”

His jaw relaxes. “It’s okay.”

“I’m just freaked out.”

He reaches for my hand. “It’s hard to try new things.” His broad fingers engulf mine.

“You’re too nice to me.” My upset is gone. In its place, I’m in awe of him. “I’m such a bitch to you. Why do you…”

The corners of his mouth perk. “I kind of like that you’re uptight. It’s fun seeing you squirm and give in, and…” He clears his throat and lowers his voice. “And last night was hot. When you let loose, you’re a frigging firecracker.”

Heat rushes my face.

There are people around. I see them from the corner of my eye and hear them talking, but they’re not really there. It’s only Terrence and me.

He stoops, bending his mouth to my ear. “You still want to get out of here?”

My breathing quick, I nod.

His cheek brushes my temple. “Let me show you the bike I bought you.”

I’m not sure if he said brought or bought. I hope it’s the first one.

The blue-and-yellow bike that he stands from the wall is shiny and new, nicer than any bike I’ve ever owned, and it has a parallel bar on the top, not the sloped kind for a girl. “Is this a boy’s bike?”

“It’s a girl’s bike. Narrower handlebars, shorter top tube. The slanted girls’ top tube is only for riding a bike in a skirt, and you’re not going to ride this bike in a skirt. Throw a leg over.”

“I haven’t ridden a bike since middle school.” I’ve never ridden a road bike with skinny tires and curved handlebars.

“You know what they say about riding a bike. You never forget.” He’s so enthusiastic and he’s put such thought into this, I submerge my protests and “throw a leg over”.

He holds the bike steady for me. “Now, put your feet on the pedals and lift your butt on the seat. I won’t let you fall. I have to check the size.”

I snake onto the seat. “Ah!” My toes barely reach the pedals.

But Terrence holds the bike in place. “I got you. Don’t worry.”

My feet dangling, I have no balance. “It’s too big. I can’t ride it.”

“That’s just the seat, I can adjust that. It’s more the frame I’m worried about.” He turns to the side to look at me. “How do your shoulders feel? I got the smallest women’s bike they had. Your torso is so short.”

“Okay, I guess.” I wiggle and wince. “This seat is awful though.”

“I got something to help with that too. You can get off now.”

Once my feet are back on the ground, he stuffs something slick and black into my hand. “Put these on.”

“What is it?”

“Bike shorts.” He shows me the inside. “There’s a pad in the bottom to cushion your seat. You can put pants overtop, if you want.” His face is open and excited. “There’s a helmet for you, too.”

He brought all of this without even knowing if I would say yes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He pats my butt. “Now hurry. We have to get you out of town before someone sees!”

Chapter Fourteen

He bought me extra-smalls. I don’t see the size tag until I’m upstairs trying on the shorts. They barely fit over my thighs, let alone my hips.

Damn it. I toss them on the bed.

Going down there, giving them back to him, and saying, “Yeah, I’m too fat for these,” is not an option. I could cry. I don’t ride bikes. I don’t wear spandex shorts. Ever.

He’s trying so hard though, and he said the bike he got me was the smallest in the shop. He thinks I’m little. He thinks I wear the smallest size in clothes, too. It’s endearing, and makes me want to wear the shorts so badly, but I can’t shrink myself. Sadly.

If I wear boy-short underwear, make sure there are no panty lines, maybe he’ll think I’m wearing them, even though I’m not.

When I walk back outside, his expectant grin and question, “Did they fit?”, are so eager that I’m glad I decided to lie.

“Yup.” I strap on the helmet he gives me and coast the bike behind him through the winding alleys of Vieux Nice, ones that I’ve never seen before. By the time we exit the old town onto a boulevard, I have no idea which way to go.

He asks, “Far enough from your school?”

“I think so.” Hopefully no one will recognize me here. “Where are we?”

“Almost to the climb. How’s the bike?”

I realize, I’m fine. A little shaky in the legs, a lot achy in the seat, but being on the bike reminds me of being a kid again, in a good way. “I’m great.”

He points to my pedals. “Did you figure out the toe clips?”

“Don’t I need those special shoes?”

“Nah. Just slip your feet in the cages.” He demonstrates with his sneakered feet, not riding his usual clipless race bike. It’s a beater that looks decades old and has no paint left, nothing like mine or the ones I’ve seen him riding before.

“Why is your bike so crappy?” I ask.

“I picked this one up at the market. It’s a fixie. Fun for riding around town. Gets boring riding the same bike all the time.”

“Why’d you bring me such a nice one?”

“The bike I’m riding is steel. Heavy, slow.”

“So my bike is, what, aluminum?”

“Carbon-fiber. Titanium alloy.”

That sounds expensive.

“It’s lightweight,” he says. “Great for riding up hills.”

“Hills?” Oh no, I’m not riding up hills. “Where are we going?”

He wheels his bike closer to me. “A little ways out of town. It’s a nice ride with a great view. You’ll love it.”

“I don’t care about the view. How far is it?”

“It’s only eight kilometers.”

“Kilometers?”

“Like, five miles.”

“Five miles?” That’s not possible. “You know I haven’t exercised since, like, Phys Ed in high school, right?”

He jerks like I’ve said I don’t own any shoes. “You don’t go running or anything?”

I gesture to my pudgy middle, my fat-filled breasts, and my excessive thighs. “Does this body look like it gets a workout to you?”

His brow creases. “You look touchable to me.”

He must be pretending not to notice that, next to him, I’m obese.

“You go for walks, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yeah. To the school and the library.”

“I bet you’ve walked the Promenade. That’s over five kilometers.”

“I guess.” I did walk the whole thing, once, in the fall when it was warm and sunny. I hope it gets warm again soon. “There’s a nice view at the end?”

“It’s worth it. You can see the whole town and the sea.” He tilts his head. “And we can always turn around if you want.”

Reluctant, but wanting to at least try his plan, I follow him down to the bike lanes. He checks on me constantly. The bike he gave me glides feather-light on the asphalt once we’re off the cobbles. My feet spin the pedals like they’re slipping through butter. “You got this bike for free from your sponsors, right?”

He coasts beside me. “Not free exactly, but a good deal.”

I’ve been out with this guy like three times. It’s too soon for gifts. If this is a date, then that means— “You can’t just buy me things.”

He’s riding leisurely with one hand on his thigh. “I’m not going to give you a piece of crap to ride. I won a ton of money yesterday. If I want to buy a girl a present, I will.”

“I thought you gave all the winnings to your teammates.”

“We divvy it up, and mine was over ten thousand euros. I sent most of it home to my mom for a new kitchen, but I keep some for me and I felt like buying you a bike. So—” He stutters. “Deal with it.”

The topic of money makes him so sensitive. “Your mom will get an awful nice kitchen for that.”

He snorts. “It’ll be barely enough once my dad’s through with it. He pisses money like water.”

“What does he do with it?”

He narrows his eyes at me like I’m so naïve. “He gambles it.”

“That’s not good. What does he do for a living?”

“Works in a machine shop.”

“He’s an engineer?”

“No. He’s a mechanic.”

Wow, Terrence really is a blue-collar kid. “And your mom?”

“Stays home. Goes to church a lot.” He says it quick, dismissing the subject. “Your parents?”

“My dad’s an accountant, and my mom’s a nurse.” We had okay money growing up, but Terrence must have had very little. He’s done well for himself. I wonder how he got into cycling.

He directs my attention back to the traffic. “Stick close, we have to cross the highway before we get to the back roads.”

“Highway?”

We stop at a four-lane road with no bike lanes. The navigation looks intimidating, with cars zooming by in pairs. I have trouble getting my feet out of the pedal cages. The brakes, in front of the handlebars, are hard to squeeze and getting started pedaling again after stopping confuses me. I have to look at the pedals to get my feet in the cages.

Terrence seems surprised. My problems aren’t things he’s thought about in a long time, but he waits patiently. “We’re in no hurry. Take your time.”

“But there are cars all around us. We have to get out of their way.”

“It’s all right. They don’t mind.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and we stop at a second traffic light.

A car next to us taps its horn and rolls down the window. The man inside says brightly, “Terror Braker?
Bravo hier
!”

Terrence nods with a broad smile. “Mercy.” The “thank you” word is so American-sounding that the Frenchman laughs as he drives away.

I laugh too. “Your pronunciation is horrid.”

Terrence shrugs. “When I try to make it sound right, they laugh just as much, so I’ve given up.”

“I could help you.”

“Lost cause. Come on. One more turn and we’ll be past the traffic.”

The quiet country road is a relief from the noisy cars, but the incline fast becomes painful. Within two blocks, I’m breathing hard. I try to hide it.

Terrence looks at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah—I just—this is really—hard.” Each pedal stroke feels like I’m pushing down a ten-ton elephant. “I don’t know how much longer—I can—do this.”

“Oh, no wonder.” He grabs my handlebars.

“What—are you—doing?”

“Just keep pedaling.” He twists the brake lever, and I hear the gears shift, once, twice. The pedaling gets easier.

“Is that—how you shift the gears? With the brakes?”

“Just twist the brake lever. Better?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. I’m still working hard, but my feet move quicker. “How long is this—climb?”

“It’s three kilometers to the view point.”

“Three k—?” I nearly choke and start coughing. “I’ll never make it.”

“Sure you will.” He stands in his pedals and rides ahead of me. He leans back on the bike and pops a wheelie, his front tire rising feet in the air, while still pedaling uphill.

“Oh my God!” I squeal, terrified that he’s going to fall on his back. “Stop it. You’ll kill yourself.”

“Nah.” He lets the wheel back down on the pavement. Then, rather than turn the bike like a normal person, he bunny-hops back to me. “I almost killed myself enough times as a kid with all the trips to the emergency room. I think I’m safe now.”

Coming next to me, he rides backward beside me up the hill.

“How do you do that?” On my bike, if I pedal backward, it does nothing but spin my pedals.

He glows with pride, as excited about impressing me as he was at winning the race yesterday. “I love this bike. It’s a fixed gear.”

He does more tricks, staying just ahead of me, like he’s my entertaining carrot.

“How you doing?” he asks, riding beside me again.

My breathing is audible, though somehow I’m not as miserable. Sort of. “This—better be—some view.”

“Yup. Promise.”

Sweat beads my brow, my legs ache, and I’m not into pain. There’s a reason why I never work out. It would be easier to get off and walk.

Then Terrence pushes me forward, with his hand on my butt.