The wide eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s a sound barrier?”
He shot his daughter a wink. “It’s just a fancy way of saying noisy.”
She thought about it for a minute before asking if she could watch some television.
“The remote’s on my desk. But you know the rules....”
She did her best to mimic her dad’s baritone. “‘The cartoon channel only, and if the volume goes over number twelve, off it goes!’”
Billie watched as his gaze followed Alyssa into the back room. He loved her. That much was clear. But something more glimmered in those black-lashed green eyes....
Jeff opened the bike shop’s door all the way. “Catch you in the a.m., Noah.” Eyes on Billie, he said, “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.”
The little girl’s father stepped closer. “Noah Preston,” he said, “owner, repairman, candlestick maker. I’d shake your hand, but...” He showed her the rag again, then tipped his head toward the street. “That your Cannondale in the rack?”
Billie nodded, wondering why the sign out front said Ike’s Bikes if the man’s name was Noah.
“Bent the frame, eh?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Saw you limping earlier, so sit tight while I bring ’er inside for a closer look.”
She reached into her pocket. “You’ll need this to unlock it,” she said, dropping the key into his upturned palm.
One of her twin brothers had been a marine, and even after five years out of uniform, Troy still wore his hair “high and tight.” There was something about his ramrod-straight stance and no-nonsense word choices that told her he hadn’t always been a bicycle repairman. However, if the wavy, collar-length hair was any indicator, Preston had not been a jarhead. No, he had been something else. Billie had given up her job as a flight attendant and enrolled in law enforcement courses because Chuck didn’t like being alone, sometimes for days on end. But he hadn’t liked the long hours she spent hitting the books, either, so she focused on web design, and used study time to read mysteries and thrillers. The fact that Preston managed to keep an eye on Alyssa even as he unlocked the bike and carried it inside made her think maybe he’d been a cop. Had an on-the-job injury forced early retirement?
The bell above the door chimed as he elbowed his way back inside with her bike. “Did I hear you telling Jeff that you walked here with this thing?” He leaned it against the counter, then squatted to give it a once-over.
“Um, yeah.” She shrugged. “But only because I couldn’t ride it from Tongue Row.”
“Tongue Row? That’s what, six, eight blocks?” He stood, stepped behind the counter and picked up a spiral notebook. “Between that ankle and the bent frame, I’m surprised you got here at all.” He slid the notebook forward. Plopped a ballpoint on the top page. “Name and phone number,” Preston said, “so I can call you once I make a diagnosis. Please.”
That slight hesitation before he tacked on the courtesy reminded Billie of stories her mom had told about the rude, bossy surgeons in the O.R. Another scenario flickered in her imagination. But if Preston had been a doctor in his pre-bike shop life, he could well afford a customer database. Unless he’d lost everything in a malpractice suit.
“You have a computer, right?”
“Who doesn’t?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How long have you lived in Ellicott City?”
“Just under a year.” She met his steady gaze, blink for blink. He’d responded to her question, she noted, without really answering it. “And you?”
Preston shifted from one sneakered foot to the other. “A year, huh? Then you know how often we lose power around here. I like the added security of having customers’ names written down in good old-fashioned black-and-white.”
Another question unanswered, Billie thought, picking up the pen. She reminded herself that she’d come here to get her bike fixed, period. With any luck, she’d never need his services again.
He glanced toward the back of the shop, where Alyssa lay on her stomach in a beanbag chair large enough to accommodate her dad’s muscular frame. He relaxed...but only slightly.
Oh, yeah. There was definitely something off about this guy.
She’d bet the Cannondale on it.
CHAPTER THREE
NOAH LEANED BOTH elbows on the glass-topped counter, putting him at eye level with—he read what she’d written in the notebook—Billie Landon. Her real name, or was Billie short for something?
She slid the book back to him. “So eventually, you have to add this information to your database?”
“Yeah. Eventually.” She had gorgeous eyes. Big. Bright. The color of rich black coffee. “But don’t feel sorry for me.”
“Sorry for you? Why would I feel sorry for you?”
Both her eyebrows had disappeared into thick, sleek bangs. Not brown. Not red. What was that color?
He cleared his throat. “Because,” Noah began, “you’re probably thinking if I had half a brain, I wouldn’t duplicate my efforts.”
The brows reappeared, in a frown. “That isn’t what I was thinking.”
Oh, but it was. In his district attorney days, he’d interviewed enough victims and perps to recognize a distortion of the truth when he saw it.
She shrugged. “Word around town is that you’re a magician when it comes to bike repair. No one mentioned your mind-reading talents.”
He added quick-witted to the list. “No, not a mind reader.” But he’d looked into enough lying eyes over the years to know a fib when he heard one. “You’re right, though. My system means I have to do everything twice. But don’t worry. I only do a couple dozen jobs a week, so there’s no chance I’ll get carpel tunnel.”
A bold smile now, which only added to his suspicions about her. Why the flip-flopping emotions?
He took a half step closer, an interrogation tactic that sent a clear “I’m in charge” signal during his days as a district attorney. Noah didn’t know which unnerved him more, the fact that his nearness didn’t faze her, or that her nearness doubled his heartbeat. He straightened, took a step back. Crossed his arms over his chest. After three years, he should be comfortable with his single dad status. He’d cleaned up his act...too little, too late. But even if he were interested enough to pursue her, a wide gold band gleamed from the third finger of her left hand. Considering her injured foot, Noah wondered why her husband hadn’t helped her deliver the bike. Was the guy married to his work, the way he himself had once been? Or a safety nut who didn’t approve of mountain biking? Maybe there wasn’t a spouse at all, and the ring served as a deterrent to unwanted flirtation.
“How long do you think it’ll take to repair my bike? I have a race next weekend.”
“On that ankle? You’re kidding, right?”
She shot him a “who do you think you are?” look, and Noah supposed he had it coming. He moved to Billie’s side of the counter again, crouched beside the Cannondale. “The fork is bent, and so’s the down tube.” Three years ago, if anyone had told him he could list bike parts, let alone repair them, he would have called them crazy. “If they won’t hold a weld, I’ll have to order new parts. Your chain is history, and I wouldn’t put any confidence in this crank set, either.”
Billie groaned softly. “In other words, I’m really not racing next Saturday.”
“Well...” Noah stood up and, with one