The Goodbye Ride

By Lily Malone

A fresh, funny and poignant romance set in the beautiful Adelaide Hills.

Olivia Murphy is a woman on a mission. The Ducati motorbike that once belonged to her brother has come up for re–sale. Liv wants to buy the precious bike, and she needs the ink dry on the paperwork before the approaching long weekend, when tourists with fat wallets will descend on her hometown of Hahndorf.

Only one person stands in her way; and she's just tripped and fallen at his feet...

Owen Carson likes rare and beautiful things and he has the Ducati in his sights. Then Liv literally falls into his path, and he finds his heart captured by beauty of a very different kind.

How far will Liv go to make the motorbike hers? Can a viticulturalist fall for a man who prefers beer? And will a long weekend among the grape vines be long enough for Owen to convince Liv he's interested in more than just a holiday fling?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781760370374

Lily Malone

Lily Malone might have been a painter, except her year-old son put a golf club through her canvas. So she wrote her first book, His Brand of Beautiful, instead. Lily has now written six full length rural romance stories and a novella all published by Harlequin Escape. Her debut trade paperback, The Vineyard In The Hills, was published by Harlequin MIRA in September 2016. Last Bridge Before Home is the third of three books set in the fictional Western Australian town of Chalk Hill, a town which, in Lily's imagination, is about halfway between Manjimup and Mount Barker on the Muirs Highway. Book One was Water Under the Bridge, published in February 2018, which is Jake and Ella's story; and Book Two, The Café by the Bridge, followed Taylor and Abe. When she isn't writing, Lily likes gardening, walking, wine, and walking in gardens (sometimes with wine). She also doesn't mind the odd game of cards and loves her regular Thursday Night hand with the Card Girls. She lives in the Margaret River region of Western Australia with her husband, and two handsome sons who take after their father. Lily is a member of Australian Rural Fiction and Australian Fiction Authors. She loves to hear from readers and you can find her on Facebook, and on Twitter: @lily_lilymalone. To contact Lily, email [e-mail] or visit www.lilymalone.blog

Book preview

Chapter 1

Olivia Murphy had brass in pocket. One thousand dollars’ worth of brass to be exact—all hers and all hard-earned. Technically, the money was in her handbag not her pocket, but Liv wasn’t about to split hairs. The sun—for the moment at least—was shining, she’d given herself the day off tomorrow, and her parents were in Melbourne. She had the house to herself for four whole days.

Bliss.

The Langs’ place wasn’t far—just another few hundred metres’ walk out of town along the Hahndorf main street. She couldn’t see the glint of red, not yet. There were too many hedges in the way, too many neat brush fences, and her prize was set back from the road. Luke’s bike. Her brother’s Ducati Pantah 650. The bike she was about to give Dean Lang ten thousand dollars to buy back.

If there’s one oak leaf stain on that paintwork, Mr Lang, you better get ready to knock another few hundred off your asking price.

Liv checked over her shoulder, just as she had every thirty seconds since she’d left the bank carrying ten hundred-dollar notes crisply folded in a plastic bag. The odds of getting mugged in Hahndorf weren’t high, unless by a Japanese tourist who wanted his photo taken. But why tempt fate?

She quickened her pace.

Her handbag bumped her hip. Liv clutched it close with her elbow and concentrated on where she put her feet. Rotting autumn leaves made slimy passage underfoot and the pavement was a twisted roller-coaster of treacherous roots.

On the opposite side of the road, ahead near the sixty sign, a bright red utility pulled to a stop. The driver braked hard enough to grind shining Mag wheels through the roadside slush.

It was one of those big, bristling testosterone-fuelled boy toys—one with more aerials than a radio station, mudflaps the size of a swamp, spotlights everywhere. A bull bar covered in RM Williams stickers snarled across the front.

Liv figured the driver must be heading up to camp in the backwaters of the Murray River for the Queen’s Birthday long weekend—some choice spot where he could shoot pigs and suck beers. He’d probably stopped to change CDs, throw One Hundred Best Beer Songs of All Time into the stacker.

‘Neanderthal,’ she muttered under her breath. He’d be just the kind of arsehole who’d made her brother’s life hell.

The driver-side door opened and two feet eased out. Two feet clad in thongs. Thongs! Liv pulled her jacket tighter across her chest. Didn’t Mr Muscle Car know it was June?

No sense. No feeling.

Those feet were attached to a muscular pair of legs in black cargo shorts, and from there to a sculpted torso in a T-shirt that looked a half-size too tight.

The driver shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, checked left and right, and his weight edged forward.

Fear iced Liv’s spine.

The brute had parked opposite Dean Lang’s house—directly opposite her bike—and now he zeroed in on the Ducati like a heat-seeking missile.

Guys like that don’t want 650 Pantahs. A strangled scream filled Liv’s head.

Guys like that drive utes!

Utes with a cabin for bonking their bimbo girlfriends. Utes with a tray in the back so they could throw in a swag at the end of a big night out.

Dammit. Where was a Greyhound bus when you needed one? Not to hit him, mind. Just to slow him down a little. Okay, maybe wing him.

Liv missed her step and skidded on an ice rink of acorns, her legs sliding like a newborn foal’s. It took a few seconds to regain her balance, and in that time the driver had loped across the road and up the embankment. Liv lost him behind the neighbour’s hedge, but she was almost level with the Langs’ driveway now. Almost there.

Then the earth moved.

She had just enough time to thrust out her left hand before she hit the ground. Pain shot through her palm and it felt like a sledgehammer whacked her hip. Her handbag catapulted from her shoulder to the pavement, scattering Lip-eze, chewing gum, and mobile phone. Her precious plastic bag of cash skidded out late, like the last girl asked to dance.

‘Whoa! Are you okay? Hold on.’

Liv heard a flap-clap sound and thought for a second that some arsehole was applauding her fall. Dimly, she looked for the arsehole, ready to give him a piece of her mind. She tried to push herself up and turn over but, before she could attain either goal, a muscled arm reached down and a dark shape blotted out the tangle of branches over her head. His bare arm cushioned her shoulders while his voice cajoled her to sit.

‘You’re wearing thongs in the middle of winter.’ It was all she could think to say. He chuckled and she heard comfort and warmth in the sound. Again he tried to propel her upright. ‘Give me a sec. My head’s spinning. I need to get my breath.’

‘That was some fall.’

She examined her sore, scraped hands, aware of a damp spot spreading on the butt of her jeans. Somehow, she got her feet beneath her. ‘I’m fine. Thank you. Really.’

He picked up her handbag, lipstick and phone. Then she saw him reach for her money.

‘I can get it,’ she said, bending, stretching for the plastic bag.

The earth spun again. She ended up with her hands on her knees and her head near her thighs. His big knuckled fingers rubbed her back and her pink wool beanie fell off her head and landed on top of his bare toe. That toe looked wild enough to crawl into the nearest cave and hibernate. Most male toes she’d seen in her twenty-four years didn’t look like that. Her brother had forgotten more about pedicures than Liv had ever known.

Loss spiked her chest. Luke.

Liv sucked two quick breaths and stood. She was here to buy Luke’s bike from Dean Lang, not think about pedicures or toes or caves.

‘Here,’ the guy said gravely, picking up her cash and hat, stuffing one in her handbag and the other over her head. Eyes the charcoal side of black seemed to click with hers and it was as if she heard a little voice inside her head sigh: Oh, hello.

Olivia Murphy didn’t listen to little voices sigh. She was far too sensible for that.

‘Thank you,’ she said, pulling away.

‘Hold still. Let me get this.’ His callused fingertips grazed the skin at her temple. His hands smelled of old rope and leather. They weren’t dirty, but his fingers were ingrained with stains, like motor oil maybe, or earth. Whatever he did for a living, her guess was he worked with his hands. Like she did.

He doubled the front of the wool beanie and rolled it once to clear her eyes, then pushed a chunk of her dark fringe to the side. ‘Good as new.’

Liv let out a breath. Judging by the dizzy feeling in her head, it was the first to go in or out for a while.

‘Well, if you’re all in one piece …’ His voice trailed away and she realised he was waiting for her to tell him her name.

‘Olivia,’ she supplied grudgingly, before she remembered he’d helped her and she should probably be nice. At least, nicer. ‘Liv. Liv Murphy.’

‘Owen Carson.’

It wasn’t a name she knew.

Owen held out his hand and she shook it. His palm was rough, his grip firm but not crushing. ‘Good to meet you. You live around here?’ He gestured with one arm at the universe in general and Hahndorf in particular.

‘I’m on Church Street. Near the school.’ Her eyes drifted to the ridges of his chest, his biceps. His nipples were hard studs under that tight T-shirt, his arms smooth and strong. He had the type of torso that would make a nun flush, and Liv was no nun, although sometimes lately it felt like it.

She tore her gaze back to his face. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Not really.’ The laughter in his eyes told her she’d been caught staring.

Olivia Murphy did not like being laughed at. Not by men she’d just met, however nun-flushing they might be. ‘I appreciate your help, but if you’ll excuse me. I’m heading to number twelve. I’ve bought that bike I think you were ogling.’

Frown lines creased his forehead and for a moment she thought he might be older than she’d first guessed, maybe late twenties instead of mid. Then he smiled and those extra years fell away. He had even white teeth, the slightest gap up front. ‘The For Sale sign’s still up.’

‘It must be a mistake,’ Liv snapped, stepping past him. Her legs felt a little wobbly, but the worst of the slippery muck was behind her, or perhaps smeared on her behind. Either way she didn’t care. What she wanted was to knock on Dean Lang’s door, pay her deposit for the Ducati, and take the bike back where it belonged.

Owen fell in to step beside her—a silent shadow at the corner of her eye—and they walked together up the driveway incline to a flat carpet of lawn bordered by scraggy-branched roses that made the first tier of a two-tier garden.

The bike gleamed dully in the fading afternoon light. Owen was right—the For Sale sign was still there, anchored between a brick and the Ducati’s rear wheel. Twelve thousand dollars, it read, ONO. Liv had scraped together ten. Until a few minutes ago when Owen slammed that car door, she thought it would be enough. Now she had competition.

Buying the bike had been all she could think of since Dean Lang told her he was selling the Duke for his son, Harley, who wanted to finance a backpacking holiday of Europe.

The Langs gave Olivia first refusal.

She’d told them she needed a few weeks to get her April and May invoices out, so her grapegrower clients had time to pay. Each month their cheques took longer to trickle in. Everyone thought wine was such