A Kiss to Build a Dream On Page 27
Leave it to the people of White Pine, Audrey thought, to stare at her like she was an alien with three heads just because she put on makeup and some tight clothes. She imagined tongues were already wagging down at the Paul Bunyan Diner about her change in “status.”
“Hello, Mr. Updike,” Audrey said as professionally as she could, “are you looking for a Harley today?”
He shifted. Right then, the only thing he was looking at was her. And no wonder, she thought. With her wild hair, dark makeup, and stilettos as sharp and long as steak knives, Audrey knew she appeared nothing like the respectable track coach and physical education teacher she’d been just a few weeks prior.
Before she’d been let go thanks to district downsizing, that is, and had taken the first job that would help her pay the rent.
“This, uh…” Red seemed to be searching for a question that didn’t involve a query about what she was wearing. His head, more square than round, tilted to the side.
Audrey had to fight off an eye roll. She almost liked it better when strangers from Marston or New Prave or Faldet or any of the surrounding towns would give her a once-over and a low wolf-whistle. It might be chauvinistic and objectifying, but at least their jaws didn’t go slack and their eyes round with bewilderment. For crying out loud, she thought, was it really so impossible that she could work her…assets a bit?
Red cleared his throat. “What’s the, ah, front-tire speed rating on this hog?”
Audrey flashed the smile she’d taught herself at the beginning of the day when it dawned on her that she’d be spending her time in a Harley-Davidson dealership, and she knew nothing about motorcycles. It wasn’t her fault that she thought the job advertising “showroom spokesperson” meant she could wear her best suit and sell quality transportation to the good people in her hometown. Could anyone really blame her for assuming the position came with some training, when instead it came with a makeup artist and leather?
“You’ll have to do,” the sales manager, Fletch Knudson, had said when she’d walked into the dealership that morning. He’d given her a quick once-over and pulled her into the offices behind the showroom, where the new-paint smell of the freshly built building still lingered. Audrey had protested—she’d just been dropping off her résumé, she’d left clothes in the dryer at home, she hadn’t been prepared to work today—but Fletch had motorcycles to sell.
“Look, we filled this job days ago,” he explained hurriedly, riffling through a closet behind one of the new steel desks, “but the girl we had lined up quit. Literally just walked out the door.”
“Literally?” Audrey had asked. “Because a lot of people misuse that wor—”
“She’s gone,” Fletch had interrupted, his dark brows pinched together with frustration, “and you’re about her size. With some help, you might do. The makeup artist is here now, she’ll teach you what you need to know. After today, you’re on your own so listen to her. The gig is Monday through Friday, ten to four. Stand there, look pretty, sell some hogs. You want it or not?”
Audrey had hesitated until he’d told her it paid thirty dollars per hour. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, it’s true, but at that rate she wouldn’t be a beggar for long.
Back in the showroom, Audrey raised her chin slightly. Fletch had told her to “get customers interested in the motorcycle that’s closest to your ass.” She was determined to see the task through, even if it was Red Updike and even if she was clueless about most things on two wheels.
“I can find out about that tire rating for you, Red. In the meantime, can I show you some of the features of this one right here?”
She had no idea what any of the mechanics were on the Harley Street Glide she was pointing to, other than it was a beautiful, inky black that reminded her of a moonless night, and the seat was a scoop of leather deep enough to throw on a horse and call a saddle.
“These are the…handlebars,” Audrey said, tottering over to the front of the motorcycle in her heels and wishing momentarily for her sensible running shoes. “This is where you steer.”
The lines on Red’s forehead deepened in a confused crinkle. Audrey was never going to be any kind of help to the dealership if she kept up this crap. She straightened, and looked Red square on.
“Honestly, I never would have guessed that a Harley was your kind of ride. Tell me what you like about them.”
Red relaxed a little. He stared at the bike. “Oh, well, you know. Machine like this is quality, a real piece of craftsmanship. And—a fella can dream, I suppose.”
Just goes to show how little I know, Audrey thought.
She never would have figured a Harley store in a small town like White Pine could make it. After all, her community comprised everyday folks who were farmers and teachers and small-business owners. But White Pine Harley had been open for a few weeks now, and it seemed to be doing fine. Today, there had been a constant, steady trickle of people in the showroom. And more sales than she’d expected. Ben Howell, her dentist, had bought a three-wheeled Electra Glide. And Lester Lawsick, the local large-animal vet, had bought a used machine off the back lot.
I may have been wrong about everything, Audrey realized suddenly, wondering how well she really knew her hometown. If the community could fire her from her dream job and support a Harley dealership, what was next?
“They’ve got used ones, too, if you’re interested,” she said, trying to help Red think about his options, if price was an issue.
“I suppose I’m just browsing,” Red replied, “though I do like the idea of change. Riding this around instead of my old truck. Can you imagine?”
Audrey felt herself smile—this time for real. Part of her could imagine Red whipping along White Pine’s back roads, the rumble of the Harley echoing over the hills, the smell of hay and grass on the wind as he sped past fence posts and freshly painted barns.
“We all need a little change,” Audrey agreed, speaking the words for her sake as much as Red’s. A few short weeks ago, she’d been coaching long-legged girls over hurdles to get the whole team to the state finals. As a PE teacher, she’d been teaching volleyball and softball and lacrosse. Then, the principal had told her that the district had eliminated PE from the curriculum due to emergency budget cuts that would avoid a district shutdown. Paul Frace, the bearded English teacher, would be taking over coaching duties. She didn’t even get to finish out the remainder of the school year.
“No child left without a huge behind,” she’d quipped to some colleagues about the disbanded PE program as she packed up her things. It was either joke—or bawl.
And now here she was, standing next to a motorcycle thanks to the fact that she’d been a runner, an athlete, and she could look good in some chaps.
She caught a glimpse of her body in the showroom’s large, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Every curve of her was pressed against leather and denim; every inch of her face was covered in bronzed makeup that gave her a sun-kissed glow; every piece of her glossy auburn hair had been sprayed to tousled perfection.
She looked good.
No, not just good, she looked hot. Melt-your-butter hot, as her sister, Casey, used to say. That is, before Casey locked away the lip gloss and blush and told Audrey that working hard and studying hard were her only priorities.
The result, Audrey realized, was that she had spent most of her life either too mousy, or too practical.
She smoothed the front of her leather bustier, wondering if she should have been strutting around Harleys all along. She figured she would have at least had more fun.
“You have a good day now,” Red said, jolting Audrey back to the here and now. She blinked, worried she’d missed conversation with him while staring at herself. But Red had been looking at the motorcycle and was probably lost in his own fantasy, too.
He walked away, his workman’s boots clomping on the white-tiled floor. That left Audrey alone for the moment. She lifted her face to the afternoon light that slanted into the showroom. It sparkled on chrome fe
nders and warmed the buttery black leather of the motorcycle seat enough to make her want to lie down and nap. Not that she was going to do any sleeping anywhere in her current attire. But she could sit for a while.
Grasping the motorcycle’s handlebars and pitching herself forward, she scooted and shimmied until one leg was over the seat. It wasn’t graceful, and she was pretty sure there were titters coming from customers in the showroom, but at least she was off her feet in those ridiculous heels.
She readjusted herself on her machine, trying to ignore the pinch of jeans on her flesh. She’d just gotten comfortable when she heard her name again, spoken from behind.
“Audrey.”
This time, it wasn’t a question.
A shiver ran through her, as if the air conditioners had suddenly kicked in and icy gusts were coursing through the room. Beneath the bustier, her heart began to pound so hard she worried for a moment that the stays might not hold, and she’d come toppling out of the whole contraption.
Her nerves tightened with adrenaline, both hopeful and fearful at the same time.
“Audrey.”
She struggled to breathe. Steadying herself as best she could, she turned and stared into the pale green eyes of Kieran Callaghan.
Her whole body swayed. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would have certainly fallen like a sawed-off oak in the middle of a clear-cut.
Kieran Callaghan.
Dear God.
He was wearing a dark leather jacket and jeans, standing with both hands in his back pockets as if he were reclining on life itself. His eyes were the color of new blades of grass reaching toward the spring sun. They searched her face as he likely tried to figure out what in the world she was doing in front of him, butt cheeks on a Harley.
With every ounce of composure she could muster, Audrey straightened her spine. She tried not to focus too much on the cleft in his chin, or how the afternoon light ignited hints of gold in his dark red hair.
She spoke the first three words that came to mind: “You’re an asshole.”
Kieran raised a brow at her. He opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him get a word in. “I’ve been waiting five years to tell you that. And I have no idea what you’re doing back in town, but you should leave this store. Right. Now.”
Kieran’s wide mouth twitched. Audrey tried not to stare at the movement, tried not to think about how much she’d loved that mouth. She’d left a steady boyfriend who’d been good to her for that mouth.
She narrowed her eyes. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Kieran grinned—a goofy, toothy motion that had her insides fluttering.
“Well, since you’re asking,” he said, his eyes traveling slowly along her body from head to toe, assessing her curves and attire like she was what he wanted to ride, “I suppose I should tell you that I’m your boss.”
Audrey stared. “Excuse me?”
“And as of right now, you’re fired.”
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Willa Masterson’s Spice-It-Up Hot Dish
An Excerpt from And Then He Kissed Me
Fall in Love with Forever Romance
Newsletters
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Lara Zielin
Excerpt from And Then He Kissed Me copyright © 2015 by Lara Zielin
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written per
mission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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ISBN 978-1-4555-5745-5
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