Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,19

the only reason she'd agreed to ride her bike out to the roughstock school was in the hopes she could make a personal apology, and maybe figure out his story.

When it came to socializing, she was much more of a homebody than most of her friends, preferring to putter and think and write when she was alone. A quiet girls night with Izzie and Jeanine held vastly more appeal than hooting and hollering at a rodeo practice arena. But she'd join this time if it meant running into Trace. And his eyes still niggled at her. Last night, lying in bed, she'd gone through a mental catalog of all the places where they might have crossed paths, and she came up empty. But she was certain they had.

Her sister's suggestion of a fling came back to her as she pedaled down the dirt road that bypassed the main road out of town. Trace Walker could be the perfect kind of fling material that Mariah had suggested. Except for the fact he drove her crazy, and the urge to smack him was as strong as the urge to kiss him. She pushed the thought from her mind, and turned her attention to her sister's other suggestion.

She wouldn't be in Prairie long enough to justify purchasing a horse, but what if she started working to fix up the house for her mom and grandmother? It wasn't investigative journalism, but it was something she might enjoy. And she could figure out her next steps while she worked. "Whaa!" She shrieked, jerking the handlebars to avoid an unexpected rut but hit a rock instead. The pedals locked with a sickening grind as she flew over the handlebars and landed on the gravel with a breath-stealing thud. Pain shot up her wrists as hot tears pricked her eyelids. Cecilia dropped her head and let out an almighty wail. What was it with her? "Are you just out to get me?" she yelled at the Universe, shaking a fist, before inspecting her hand. Her palm was scraped and a little bloody from the impact, but after a few wrist circles, it was clear the most bruising was to her ego.

Dust kicked up at the end of the road, signaling the presence of an oncoming vehicle. She struggled up and hobbled over to where her bike lay. "Great," she groaned, seeing one end of the chain dangling in the dirt and realizing she hadn't thought to bring her bike tools. She was still a couple miles from the roughstock riding school, and no cell service. Hopefully one of them would come looking for her when they realized she was late. She picked up her bike and began slowly walking it along the side of the road.

"Well, well," drawled none other than Trace Walker with an arm hanging out the driver's window as the truck slowed to a stop. "What do we have here?"

The second she laid eyes on Trace's smug smirk and his laughing eyes, all thoughts of apology flew out the window. "Nothing," she waved him on. "Just out for a country walk." Why did he always seem to appear when she was at her worst?

"Limping and with a broken chain." He hopped out of the car, looking way too fine in a pair of worn jeans, still designer, but worn enough they molded to his thighs. Instead of a custom fit button-up, today he wore a snug black tee that hugged every dip and curve from his pecs to his abs. Even from a short distance, his corded arms jumped out at her. The man was built, and in spite of her irritation at his smugness and her almost maniacal desire to best him verbally, she couldn't deny the effect he had on her lady parts.

"Don't get any ideas," she quipped. "I'm in a hurry, and I'll fix it when I get home."

His hand shot out and covered hers on the handlebar. She sucked in a startled breath, more from the zing that shot up her arm than from anything else. Her pulse began to hum like a tree full of August locusts.

"Where you headed?" he asked, eyes drilling into hers.

She blinked, mouth turning to dust, and hating that all it took was one hard look from him to turn her mind to mush and erase her list of hard-hitting questions. "Roughstock riding school."

Trace let go of her hand and crossed his arms, a slow triumphant smile pulling at the corners of his perfect mouth.