Improbable Odds: A Riverbend Romance, #2

By Izzy Matthews

Can a brilliant English Professor and a dyslexic auto mechanic find a path to love?

Divorced Zoe Gifford hopes her move to Riverbend will heal her shattered heart. She's not looking for love, and never with a younger man. But when she meets the compelling auto mechanic in a yoga class, it's impossible to fight her fascination with him.

Zander Greybek spots Zoe unrolling her yoga mat and his immediate attraction is staggering. Blinded to their differences, he's in hot pursuit and intends to catch her at all costs. But when her insecurities surface, the shame he carries from his past is a punch in the gut.

Can she conquer her fears and reach for love or will he play the odds to win?

Improbable Odds is a standalone, steamy, contemporary romance with a passionate and resilient hero and heroine who must each decide to risk it all for a chance at a forever love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Izzy Matthews
• Release date: Jan 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735052625

Book preview

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Author’s Note

Dear Readers,

Improbable Odds is a short novel starring Zoe Gifford and Zander Graybek, who both live in Riverbend, and who interact with characters from book one in the series. Their story popped into my head while I was plotting what I thought was going to be book two, but I fell hopelessly in love with Zoe and Zander and had to tell their tale first.

Will the brilliant English professor, and the younger, dyslexic auto mechanic take a risk and play the odds for a chance at a forever love?

Come on down to Riverbend and find out.

Hugs,

Izzy

Dedication

To my lovely daughters and their amazing guys. I know how lucky and blessed I am to have you all in my life.

Chapter One

Zoe Gifford carried her yoga mat and water bottle as she walked with her best friend, Sandy Stillman. It was a lovely afternoon in April, and both women wore long sleeved t-shirts over their yoga tops. Thanks for getting me out the door, Sandy.

It’s time, Zo. Time to take that first step.

You’re right. She sighed. I’m tired of sitting on my butt. Tired of being mad and sad. And even tired of bingeing on Entenmann’s. Though I still have half a box of chocolate donuts waiting for me at home.

Sandy laughed. Hmm, yoga and donuts. That’s as incongruous as you can get. But remember, it’s one step at a time, one day at a time. Your ego will heal. You were zany and bold, Zoe. Do not let Mark take that away from you.

Professor Stillman, your psych degree is showing.

When is it not? Sandy bumped hips with hers.

"In answer to your little lecture about healing, I quote, ‘The probability lies in that direction.’ Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of the Baskervilles," Zoe teased, speaking as if she were lecturing her class.

Professor Gifford, your English Lit degree is showing, too. And FYI, your Great Literary Detectives is the most popular class this semester. A few of my juniors raved about it.

It’s so much fun teaching it, the students are incredibly engaged. And now that we’re studying Conan Doyle, the BBC’s present take on Sherlock Holmes has them excited about the story.

And the black tee you’re wearing with a white profile of Sherlock is too cute. In fact, I want one.

Done. Your birthday is coming up soon.

You’re the best, Zo. Here’s the studio. They stopped in front of a renovated old stone building with a sign above the door that read Flow Yoga. It was a new business that was on the square in Eastbridge, PA, a town situated on the confluence of the Delaware and Lehigh Rivers.

The front windows were lit on the inside with small white lights highlighting ceramic pots of bamboo and small fountains filled with smooth stones. The feel of the place was absolute peace and serenity.

Serenity, that’s what I need these days, Zoe mused.

I’ve been telling you about this studio for the past six months, Sandy moved to the entrance.

Zoe took Sandy’s arm. I’m worried that this class is too advanced for me. I haven’t done yoga or a drop of exercise since Mark asked for a divorce. That was over eight months ago. This old body isn’t as flexible as it once was.

Stop stressing out. You know you go at your own pace in yoga, that’s all that matters. Zoe, you’re a brilliant, beautiful, sexy woman whose schmuck of a husband made her feel—

—like a used up, rejected hag when he asked for a divorce the day after I turned sixty. He was so thoughtful, sarcasm dripped from her lips, he didn’t want to tell me the news on my birthday. The memories pierced her heart, painful as shards of glass. How about we not talk about it?"

Sorry, Zoe. Try to forget everything for the next hour and a half.

I’ll try.

I know you will, let’s go in and get set up.

The interior of the yoga space was tranquil with low lighting, bamboo flooring, and a few Japanese Maple trees in ceramic pots near shaded arched windows. The instructor called out a soft hello, then busied herself pulling out bolsters, blocks, straps, and blankets. With a sigh of relief, Zoe saw that only three other women made up the class, and they were setting up in the front of the room. One woman was older. She had gray hair and wore a loose t-shirt and cropped spandex pants. Her mat was unrolled, and she sat down.

Okay, there’s another older woman who might not be limber either. But the other two women had to be in their thirties. One was a tall, curvy redhead with long wavy hair. The other was a reed-thin blonde whose face could have graced a fashion magazine cover. They unrolled their mats, whispering to each other, then turned, Hi Sandy.

Hey, Cassie, Rachel, good to see you. Sandy led Zoe over. This is my friend, Zoe, it’s her first time here.

Welcome, the redhead said, I’m Cassie, and put out her hand to shake.

I’m Rachel. It’s a great class, the blonde added, and she and Zoe shook hands. "We both live in Riverbend. The new yoga studio, Om, opened and closed within six months, unfortunately, but having Flow just four miles away is awesome.

Zoe is living in Riverbend now, Sandy announced.

I moved in nine months ago, I have a rental on Delaware Lane.

Let’s exchange cell numbers after class, Rachel offered.

I’d love that, thanks. I’m going to scoot in the back. See you all later.

She placed her water bottle on the floor, feeling good about meeting two friendly women who live in Riverbend, but she couldn’t help comparing herself to thirty-year-younger bodies. I’m just being overly sensitive because Mark traded me in for a thirty-five year old model.

Pulling the Sherlock tee over her head, she straightened the dark blue yoga tank over her breasts. She was naturally small-breasted, but they seemed to have shrunk down a size over the past months, since she’d lost what she called divorce weight. Any smaller, she thought, and she’d be back in a training bra.

But I have hips and ass that never get smaller, lucky me. Stop comparing yourself and putting yourself down. You used to like your body but you’ve taken a massive hit to your ego. Sighing, she folded the tee and placed it next to the water bottle.

With shaking hands she unrolled her mat muttering, I’ve been a slug for almost a year, bet I’ll be falling out of poses throughout the class.

From behind, a deep, masculine voice asked, Is this spot taken? and jump-started a surprising quiver deep in her belly.

She turned and fell into deep, steel-gray eyes, twinkling with amusement.

Oh my.

His face was striking—rough and masculine. Tall and lean, he wore a black tank top showing off arms that had compact, defined muscles, covered in extraordinary black and gray tattoos of a river flowing down his arms, from shoulder to wrist. A shocking image of herself studying those tattoos up close and tracing them with her tongue created a flash of heat that bathed her body and electrified her comatose libido.

This fascinating example of raw masculinity with a resonant, smokey voice was staring at her hard. She gulped, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Oh my god, I’ve been staring at him like I’m sex starved. She may well be, but advertising it to this strange man was humiliating.

But the worst part was that, despite the greying temples of his short-cropped jet black hair, it was clear that he was younger than her, and by at least a decade.

He smiled and stuck out a large hand to shake, I’m Zander. Zander Greybek.

She put her hand out and he engulfed it in his, shook once, and held it. This was a working man’s hand, heavily veined, his fingers rough and calloused, not soft and smooth like her ex, who spent most of his time either teaching or writing.

And that roughness was a hell of a turn on. She lost herself again in a sexual thrall, imagining what his hands and calloused fingers would feel like running over her body...

He stepped closer and she caught a potent whiff of motor oil mixed with a spicy male scent. Hey, are you in there?

Uh-oh. Worried that he could read her mind, or her body language, she couldn’t look at him. It was pathetic that she was lusting after a much younger stranger. I’m not that woman, a cougar, she reassured herself—it was a word used against women that she despised.

Ah, she mumbled and tried to pull out of his hold, but he shook his head, And you are? His eyes sparked with interest.

How could he be interested in her? He must see that she’s older. Though no man had looked at her for a long while in the way that Zander Greybek was doing right at this moment, there was no doubt that he was attracted. He was also incredibly pushy, making her uncomfortable, but awfully good at the same time. I’m Zoe Gifford.

He nodded this head. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Zoe Gifford? He repeated her name, as if testing the sound of it. Hey, our initials, z, g, are the same.

That’s amazing. If we get married I won’t have to change my monogram, she said dryly, though with a smile. Her quick response reminded her of how she used to enjoy verbal jousting before her divorce deflated her. She couldn’t stop a grin when he busted out laughing, and everyone in the class turned to look at them.

But her brow furrowed. Can I have my hand back?

He shook his head and the corner of his mouth quirked up when she narrowed her eyes. He smirked and slowly rubbed his thumb in a circle over the outside of her hand, watching her closely. Heat radiated between them.

What are you doing?

Reality struck. Maybe he got off on making women swoon, no matter their age. Mr. Greybek, stop playing games. Please let go.

Sure, Zoe, he released her. She turned away and sat down on her mat. He unrolled his and sat down right next to her.

What in the world was his game? There are plenty of other spaces for you to set up, she swept her hand around the empty room.

He shrugged, Yeah, but I like this one.

Ignore him, and he’ll go away. She hoped. She turned her attention to the front of the room as the teacher sat down and began the class.

Zoe, he whispered.

What? She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Don’t worry about falling out of poses, I’ll catch you.

She stopped herself from smiling at his charming words. She shouldn’t be playing along—she should make it clear that she wasn’t interested. You’re lying to yourself. Yes, in different circumstances, she might open herself to Zander’s advances. Ugh, even his name is sexy.

Turning off that pesky inner voice, she moved into a lotus position and slowed her breathing, hoping it would slow her rapid pulse and cool the powerful tension that hovered between them.

The last thing in the word she needed was more trouble, and Zander Greybek was nothing but.

Chapter Two

With Zoe on his mind, Zander left the class, climbed into his ten-year-old Volvo station wagon, and headed home. He hit the button for a classic rock station and turned down the volume as Eric Clapton sang about his unrequited love for Layla.

The song resonated because as soon as he’d spotted Zoe walk into Flow, he’d had an uncanny attraction to her. She hadn’t noticed him, since he’d stepped into a corner of the room to take a call before turning his cell off and leaving it in the cubby with his shoes.

And then, lucky him, the lovely woman had set up in the back of the room away from the others. She looked at least his own forty-eight years, or somewhere in her early fifties, but that was only a passing thought. The attraction to her was so powerful that after being with her for only ninety minutes, he thought he could draw her face from memory.

Zoe was beyond pretty. Her looks had pulled him in right from the first, as had her body—lean and tall, but curvy in all the right places. Warm, coffee-brown eyes were fringed with dark lashes that amped up her creamy olive complexion, with laugh lines at the corner of her eyes and faint ones around her mouth. Her nose turned up slightly at the tip, and it had twitched when he’d gotten close to her—he smiled at the memory of her reaction to him.

But it was her mouth, those rose-colored lips, the plump bottom one with a slight dip in the center that had made his pants tighten. He wanted to suck on that lip and bite it until she moaned. And though he liked long hair on women, Zoe’s short, thick brown waves and subtle blonde highlights, likely covering gray, tempted him into running his hands through it while he kissed her.

Maybe he’d come on too strong, but the surprising sexual tension between them exploded from the first time that their eyes met. She’d felt it too, he’d watched her that closely, and her embarrassment wasn’t hard to miss. She’d taken off that neat Sherlock Holmes tee to reveal a skimpy, stretchy dark-blue yoga tank right before he spoke to her. And when he’d looked her over, her nipples had hardened. Nice. But it was that fine ass of hers, prominent in yoga pants as she’d bent over putting down her mat, that had him silently panting. Oh man, it had taken a solid minute of counting