Take a Chance on Me Book Two (EBOOK)

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“Wait, where are you going?” Sierra’s voice was cutting in and out, and Indie turned up the volume before merging into the far lane.

“A place called Custom Rides. They do custom-built motorcycles,” Indie said.

“Holy shit. Did your brother finally convince you to start driving a bike?” Sierra asked.

“God no, I am strictly a passenger when it comes to motorcycles. But it’s his birthday in a couple of months, and Dad wants to get him a custom paint job for his bike. Dad found this place online and asked me to check it out since he’s still in Arizona for another month.

“The store doesn’t have a website with pictures of their work?” Sierra asked.

“They do, but you know Dad. He thinks everything on the internet is fake.” Indie laughed. “So, now I’m driving across town on a very snowy Tuesday evening to a store where I’ll potentially be the only woman and will either be completely ignored or have to suffer through a bunch of patronizing bullshit from the store employees.”

“Sound like a great time,” Sierra said.

“What are you doing tonight?” Indie asked.

“Same thing I do every night… sanding, painting, and questioning why I ever thought buying a fixer-upper to renovate was a good idea,” Sierra said.

“Because it was your dream, and now that your asshole of an ex-husband is out of the picture, you can live that dream?” Indie said.

Sierra laughed. “That is true. Hey, did you know that DIY drywalling is incredibly difficult? Like, I’m gonna have to hire a drywaller, difficult?”

“Sorry, honey,” Indie said. “I know you really wanted to do everything yourself with the house.”

“I do, but I also know my limits, and drywalling is one of them. None of your clients at the vet clinic happen to be reliable drywallers with good reputations, do they?”

Indie laughed. “I don’t think so, but I can double-check.”
“Thanks, babe. Listen, I gotta go. The floor in the guest bedroom isn’t going to sand itself. Love you.”

“Love you too, Sierra.”

Sierra ended the call, and Indie stopped at a red light, studying the snowy landscape. She’d ask one of the clinic receptionists about the drywalling thing. In her client appointments, she rarely focused on anything beyond the animal she examined. Their owner’s occupation wasn’t a topic that usually came up.

With the exception of Val Jensen and what he did for a living.

As usual, just the thought of the big, rough looking mechanic made her feel too warm and like she had tiny gymnasts doing backflips in her stomach. Val had come into the clinic with his daughter’s pet bunny a few weeks ago, and despite his rough appearance, he’d had an obvious affection for the rabbit.

The robotic voice of her GPS told her to take the next right, and Indie flicked on her turn signal. She’d been immediately attracted to Val, and despite knowing someone like him would have no interest in someone like her, she’d made a fool of herself. She cringed as she turned right. God, the look on his face when she’d given him her cell number made her want to sink through the car floorboards, even though it’d been days since her humiliation. He’d seen right through her pretense that it was in case his rabbit fell ill again, and he hadn’t called.

She sighed and drove carefully down the snowy road. She needed to stop thinking about Val Jensen and his dark eyes and granite body and those big, tattooed hands of his that she couldn’t stop wondering what they’d look like cupping her breasts.

Inner Indie sighed with annoyance and said - Indie, give it a rest. He’s not interested in you, and you’re gonna wear out your freaking vibrator if you don’t stop fantasizing about him. I know you miss sex, but if you want a real dick and not that piece of plastic you hump every night, you need to stop fantasizing about the unattainable and find yourself a real-life fuckbuddy.

Inner Indie was right, but finding a guy who was only interested in sex with her once or twice a week had turned out to be much more difficult than she thought. Scratch that. Finding a guy who turned her on and could make her come was more difficult.

You’re being too picky. You don’t need to have a connection with the guy to fuck him. Hell, you don’t even have to have a conversation with him - Inner Indie said.

Right again, but apparently, as much as she wanted to be the type of person who could just fuck someone regardless of whether she felt a connection or not, she wasn’t. Her inability to come with the five guys she’d slept with since her divorce had proven she needed a connection. At least, she hoped that was the reason she couldn’t come. She’d had a connection with her ex-husband, and there were plenty of times she’d had to fake it with him. But was she really asking for that much? Why was it so damn difficult to have an orgasm with a man? As much as she told herself it wasn’t her, that she had some trauma from her ex blaming every issue on her, she still had a hard time believing it wasn’t her fault. Her besties, Sierra and Hazel, had no problem orgasming with a guy, but here she was… forty-five years old and still struggling to have a great sex life.
Hell, forget great. She’d settle for a solid nice at this point.

The GPS announced the destination was on her right, and Indie turned into the Custom Rides parking lot. She parked and shut off her car, staring at the building in front of her. It was large with red siding and white trim. Two garage doors, painted white to match the trim, were on the left side of the building, and to the right was the front glass door with a dark grey awning over it. The Custom Rides logo was printed on the awning as well as on both garage doors.

Only one other car was in the parking lot, but warm light spilled out from the glass door. She climbed out of her SUV and walked to the building, checking the sign. They were open for another fifteen minutes, and she pulled open the door and stepped inside. The bell above the door jingled her arrival. Directly in front of her was a long counter set on top of a glass display case. The case held various motorcycle parts, each one shiny clean and gleaming in the light. A cash register sat on top of the counter, along with a small spinning stand holding Custom Rides keychains and an array of stainless-steel water bottles with the Custom Rides logo.

On the wall to the right, long metal pegs held a variety of Custom Rides merchandise, including shirts, hoodies, trucker hats, and vests. A door marked ‘employees only’ and a floor-to-ceiling display shelf of motorcycle helmets was at the back of the store. To her left was a large showroom with over a dozen bikes showcased. She walked over to the closest motorcycle, trailing her hand across the leather seat and along the metallic blue body.

“Holy shit,” she murmured. While not a motorcycle expert, she knew more than the average person thanks to her father and brother’s obsession, and she knew quality work when she saw it. Every bike in the showroom showed a master’s touch, and she couldn’t wait to tell her father he’d found the perfect place.

She touched the leather grips on the bike’s handles before moving to the next motorcycle. This one was painted cherry red, and the chrome had been cleaned until it gleamed in the overhead lights. She ran her fingers along the seat, picturing what it would be like to be on the bike, her arms wrapped around the warm solid bulk of the man in front of her, her knees gripping his hips, the solid rumble of the bike’s motor between her thighs.

She squeezed her thighs together. The only thing she missed about her dirtbag of an ex-husband was his bike. They’d gone on plenty of bike trips during their marriage, and she missed it with a fierce ache. So much that she’d even considered taking motorcycle driving lessons, but in the end, she’d chickened out. As much as she missed being on a bike, she really had no desire to learn how to drive one.

Maybe Val would take her for a ride on his bike.

She scoffed inwardly. Forgetting she’d never see him again, she had no idea if Mr. Valerie Jensen even drove a motorcycle. Sure, he looked like he did, but looking like he might be perfectly at ease on a bike, didn’t mean he would be. Still, adding a detail like Val driving a motorcycle would certainly make her fantasy about him tonight a little richer. It wasn’t like it harmed anyone to pretend that he drove a bike and would also be willing to bend her over it and fuck her into the best orgasm of her life. It was a harmless little fantasy that would give her beleaguered vibrator a real workout tonight.

She heard footsteps behind her, and then a shockingly familiar voice said, “How can I help you tonight?”

Indie froze, her fingers pressing hard into the leather seat. It couldn’t be him. He was a mechanic. It was probably someone else with a honey-rough voice she couldn’t get out of her head.

“Ma’am?” Now the voice held a hint of impatience. “Can I help you?”

Her body weirdly numb, and her breath whistling in and out of her lungs, Indie turned around. She stared at the big man behind her, at those pretty dark eyes, and big tattooed hands and the broad chest covered by a dark blue t-shirt with the words ‘Custom Rides’ etched into the material.

Her voice embarrassingly breathy, she said, “Hello, Mr. Jensen.”

Val stared at her, his eyes widening just the tiniest bit. “Hello, doc.”