He hadn’t said much in response, but she didn’t seem offended. From what he could tell, she didn’t require much in the way of audience participation. “I figure there’s about a fifty-fifty chance I’ll die along that canal.” Tilting her head in thought, she drummed her fingers along the edge of the table. “If I do, please attend my funeral. Tell the crowd I died doing what I loved most—chasing after an eligible guy. Of course, I’ll also have died doing what I hated most. Namely, riding an accursed form of transportation in sweaty clothes while fighting that bitch Mother Nature.” Good thing she was hilarious. If she wasn’t, he’d probably have donned his safety headphones about fifteen minutes ago. She pointed an admonishing finger his way. “At the service, don’t tell my dad you’re the one who taught me to ride. He might blame you for my untimely demise, especially if he sees this shop. My guess? He’ll assume you tampered with my bike. Largely because your front room looks like the hideout of a crazed loner.”
