ridden in the Tour de France?”
He glanced at her, his humor obvious. “Do you even know what that is?”
“It’s, ah, a famous bike race. In France. It’s done in parts or stages or legs or something. And there’s a yellow jersey.”
“Good start.” His voice was teasing. “It’s stages, by the way.”
“I’m not really that into sports. But from what I’ve heard, you’re very impressive.”
He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.
“Do you make a good living at that? The bike riding?”
“You can. Prize money can be substantial. A top rider can pull in over a million.”
“Dollars?”
“Tour de France pays in Euros.”
“Right.” She was feeling a little sick to her stomach.
“Endorsements bring in the big money. Multimillion dollar deals.” He glanced at her. “They pay in dollars. Or yen.”
A million here, a million there. Did currency really matter? “So you were successful?”
“A case could be made.”
“And worth millions?”
“On a good day.”
Because the sexual appeal, incredible body and handsome face weren’t enough.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“In the SUV or in Fool’s Gold?”
“Either. Both.”
“I’m showing you the area because Marsha asked me and I’m in Fool’s Gold because I live here. I’ve retired from racing.”
She shifted to face him. “Retired? You’re barely in your thirties.”
“It’s a young man’s sport.”
How young? Retired? That didn’t seem possible. She wondered if he’d been injured. Not that she would ask. It seemed too personal.
“What do you do now?”
“This and that. I keep busy. I have a few things going on in the area.”
They were back in town. Josh drove around the lake. There were small hotels, a couple of B&Bs, restaurants and vacation homes. Across the street were the boutiques, a bakery and an open, grassy park.
“Angelo’s has great Italian food,” he said, pointing to the entrance to a large restaurant. “Margaritaville has the best Mexican food.”
“Named after the Jimmy Buffet song?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Avoid the extra shot with the margaritas unless you’re a professional. It’ll knock you on your butt.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’m more a single glass of wine kind of girl.”
He mentioned several other restaurants, a couple of bars and the drive-in with the best fries and shakes anywhere. All of which made her happy she’d taken the job in Fool’s Gold. If only she’d been able to grow up in a place like this, she thought wistfully. But her mother would have hated everything about the town. Especially the close ties.
Her mother liked to come and go as she pleased, always looking for new adventures—especially where men were concerned. Charity had learned early not to expect any one guy to stick around for long. They were always moving through, too.
She’d vowed her life would be different. That she would find someone special, get married and be with that person forever. So far, she hadn’t been very successful in that department but she was determined to keep trying.
Rather than dwell on her sucky love life, she asked, “Did you ever have any bike races in town?”
“No. There was some talk, but nothing was arranged.” He glanced out the window.
“What about a charity event? To raise money for kids?”
“I don’t ride anymore.”
“At all?”
He shook his head.
She thought he would continue to circle the large lake, but instead he made a few turns and before she realized where they were, he’d pulled up in front of City Hall. Their time together had ended abruptly, as if she’d done something wrong.
When he didn’t turn off the engine, she got the hint.
“Thanks for the tour,” she said, feeling awkward. “I appreciate you taking the time.”
“No problem.”
She hesitated, wanting to say something else, then got out of the SUV. He drove off without a word.
She stood on the sidewalk, staring after him. What had just happened? What had she said? She felt oddly guilty and wasn’t sure why.
“Because the hormones weren’t enough of a complication,” she murmured with a sigh.
THE NIGHT WAS COOL, the sky clear. There wasn’t any moonlight to illuminate the road, but that didn’t bother Josh. He knew every bump, every curve. There was no danger from other riders because he rode alone. He had to. It was the only way to work through his issues.
As he headed up the incline, he pedaled harder, faster, wanting to increase his heart rate, wanting to feel the blood pumping through his body, wanting to exhaust himself so maybe, just maybe, he would sleep.
The darkness surrounded him. At this speed the only sound was the wind in his ears and the tires on the pavement. His skin was cold, his shirt wet with sweat. Goggles protected his eyes, the helmet was snug on his head. He sped over the top of the hill and onto the straight five-mile stretch that led back to town.
This was the only part of his ride he didn’t like. There was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep his mind busy, so he had time to think. To remember.
Without wanting to, he was back in Italy, at the Milan–San Remo, or as the Italians referred to it, la Classica di Primavera. The Spring Classic.
A sprinter’s dream race, but deadly for the sprinter who wasn’t prepared for the hills. It was one of the longest single-day races. Two hundred and ninetyeight kilometers, or one hundred and eighty-five miles. That year Josh had been in the best shape of his life. He couldn’t lose.
Maybe that’s what had gone wrong, he thought grimly as he rode faster and faster. The gods had decided such arrogance had to be punished. Only he hadn’t been the one struck down.
A bike race was all about sensation. The sound of the crowd, of the peloton—the pack of racers—and of the bike. The feel of the road.
