“Monica said, polishing off the last of her drink. She skimmed a couple of almonds from the top of the bowl of mixed nuts and popped them into her mouth, as if they would absorb the wine she’d consumed. But she wasn’t feeling light-headed. If she’d hoped the wine would dull her senses, it hadn’t. Just as well. She did have to go back to work. God knew what shape Rose Cottage was in. Ty chugged down his lemonade and stood to let her out of the booth. “I’ll take you,” he said. He gave Emma a regre...tful smile. “I wish I could give you a lift, too, but—” “That’s okay,” she assured him. “I’ve got my own bike. The kind with pedals.” The afternoon was balmy, the sky a rich blue with just a few wispy clouds trimming it like ribbons of lace. Ty escorted both women out of the bar. He and Monica waved Emma off on her bicycle, and then he led Monica to a small black motorcycle with enough chrome trim to make her retinas ache. What appeared to be a bike lock fastened two battered helmets to one of the chrome bars supporting the padded seat back.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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