A Tad Too Much: a small-town opposites attract romance

Thaddeus ‘Tad’ Haugen shifted his BMW M4 convertible into third gear and pressed the accelerator. His father distained tardiness in anyone (including his son), and Tad wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on being late for their weekly tennis match.

The car in front of him slowed, and Tad changed lanes.

HONK!

The angry sound came from behind him, and he glanced in his rearview mirror. Crap! He hadn’t even seen the motorcycle he’d just cut off.

He passed the slower vehicle and pulled back into the right lane. The motorcycle roared past him, the rider giving him what he imagined was a dirty look, though he could see no features through the gray-tinted face shield.

As the motorcycle pulled in front of his BMW, Tad’s gaze was drawn to the auburn tresses flowing from beneath the helmet. The rider’s back was slim and tapered to hips that were decidedly feminine.

A pickup truck travelling the other direction lurched into the center turn lane to make a left. Man, he hoped that guy had better vision than he did.

Apparently not, because the driver started to make his turn—directly in front of the motorcycle.

Tad hit his brakes the same moment the biker chick did. The motorcycle’s back tire fishtailed one direction, then the other as its rider fought for control—and then machine and woman toppled in slow motion.

Tad punched the button that activated his hazard lights as he stopped behind the rider. He jumped from his car and jogged to the motorcycle. “Are you all right?”

The biker untangled long legs from under the machine as he extended his hand. She ignored it and picked herself up. So, probably not injured. Still, he had to be sure. He touched her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She flipped her visor up, and startling green eyes went wide. What facial skin he could see turned raspberry-pink. “I’m, ah…” She looked down as if studying her legs, then brushed a hand over her leather chaps. “I appear to be in one piece.”

She knelt next to the motorcycle, staring intently at the chrome bars attached to the front lower portion of the machine, muttering something that sounded like ‘freaking cage drivers.’

He glanced at the traffic flowing around them. “Did you say cage drivers?”

“Uh, yeah… it’s what bikers call car drivers.” She glanced at him, looked away again. “You know—stuck in a cage?”

“Clever,” he said.

She turned her back to the motorcycle and placed her hands under the frame.

Was she going to try to set the machine to rights on her own? He wasn’t chauvinist or anything but… that wasn’t going to happen.

“Let me help,” he said.

She braced her feet in front of her. “I got it.”

He resisted the urge to comment. Instead, he removed his suit jacket and laid it on the hood of his car, the tennis game and his dad entirely forgotten.

“Really, I got this.” She sounded irritated.

When he turned back to her, she did indeed have the motorcycle off the ground, but she was clearly struggling.

“I can see that.” He aligned himself next to her. Thankfully, she didn’t argue any further, and they righted the machine together.

She blew out a breath. “Thanks,” she said.

“Maybe we should pull off to the side of the road for a bit,” he said.

“I’m fine.” She straddled the motorcycle and checked the gears and controls. She hit the starter button and the bike roared to life.

Seriously? She was just going to ride away?

“You sure?” he said.

Her head jerked toward him as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Um… thanks… again.” Then she twisted the throttle and left him standing there.