Inking the Deal

By Roxie Clarke

Second chances aren't guaranteed…

Motorcycle enthusiast, Mickey Diaz, loves the small town of Cataluma, CA where she grew up and now owns a successful tattoo shop. At twenty-eight, she hasn't found "The One" yet, and isn't sure she ever will, but she has plenty of non-romantic relationships that are fulfilling.

Mostly.

Besides, the only guy she ever loved was all wrong for her and broke her heart when they were seventeen. Mickey knows better than to go down that road again.

Former golden boy turned hopeful hippie, Angus Ward, returns to his hometown of Cataluma, with a new name and the determination to make his vegan bakery a hit in the heart of cattle country.

He may have changed his first name to Sequoia, but what hasn't changed is his need to prove himself to his rancher dad, and his desire to have a second chance with the one that got away, Mickey Diaz.

Will these two find a way to work through their past so they can build a future together?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Free Press
• Release date: May 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224032297

Roxie Clarke

Roxie Clarke writes sweet romance featuring houseplants, hunky heroes, and happily ever afters. She lives outside Portland, OR with her husband and their five children. It is loud at her house.

Book preview

introduction

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one

Mickey rode her long-distance motorcycle, a reliable cobalt blue Yamaha SV650, on the two-lane road that followed the meandering curves of the Rio Luminita toward her hometown of Cataluma, California.

The late morning sun sparkled on the ripples in the slow-moving river, distorting the silver corrugated metal reflection coming off the roof of her Uncle Diego’s vehicle repair shop as the water flowed under the bridge connecting the road to the town.

The river’s sandy banks were dotted with people wearing waders over their jeans and t-shirts packing up fishing gear and coolers full of catch of the day before hauling it up the hill to their pickup trucks.

A lot of people in Cataluma owned pickups, but Mickey had always been partial to a motorcycle. She’d grown up with them, helping her dad and her older brother Tomas work on their bikes. Eventually she got her own, an early model Yamaha SV650, when she was sixteen and two years later joined the Cataluma motorcycle club of which her dad was still the leader.

They didn’t have matching jackets or anything, just a love of their machines and an enthusiastic community of fellow motorcyclists who got together after hours in her dad’s bakery, the sweet fragrance of pan dulce still lingering in the air, to talk and eat and give each other a hard time or a helping hand.

She turned onto the bridge, a sturdy concrete and steel structure that was never going to win any beauty contests, and waved to Aaron, the owner of the Cataluma Inn who was out on the back patio. Standing under a pergola, soon to be heavy with deep pink bougainvillea, chatting up some guests, he returned Mickey’s wave and then pointed his guests down the riverwalk in the direction of Prospector’s Row.

Once off the bridge, Mickey made a quick left onto River Road and then a quick right into the alley that ran to the rear of all the shops on this side of Prospector’s Row. She parked behind a squat white stucco building with a red clay tile roof, her dad’s panaderia, La Espiga Dorada, in the spot next to his black Yamaha R15.

Mickey dismounted, taking her black helmet and durable canvas backpack off and set them on the pavement. She shook out her curly dark brown hair and then raised her arms above her head, cracking a tight spot between her shoulder blades. The three-hour ride from her brother’s place in San Francisco never failed to aggravate her back.

Of course, leaning over people tattooing them for eight hours a day, even longer at the convention she’d attended over the weekend, probably didn’t help.

Micky glanced at the red Honda CB500X parked behind the business next door, also a bakery, but a bougie vegan one, and stuck her tongue out at the bike.

Michaela, the CB500X is a solid ride, her dad said from the backdoor, a cacophony of sugar and spice, coffee and vanilla wafting down the steps from the kitchen. He wiped his hands on a clean white towel and then tossed it into the green mesh laundry bag just inside the bakery. Don’t take your feelings for a person out on an innocent motorcycle.

Mickey snorted. You’re right, Papa. She gathered her helmet and backpack. It’s just that Angus–

You know he goes by Sequoia now, her dad interrupted, untying and tying the white apron he wore over his jeans and faded charcoal gray t-shirt that said Yosemite on the front.

Sequoia, Mickey said, fighting the urge to hard roll her eyes. He asked my opinion on Instagram once about what kind of motorcycle he should get, and he didn’t take my advice. At. All.

Her dad stepped out onto the landing so she could come into the bakery. She dropped her helmet and backpack on the metal folding chair in the cramped hallway outside his office.

Maybe Sequoia tried out your suggestion and it didn’t feel right to him, her dad said, nudging her through the hot kitchen toward the more comfortable storefront. I think you’re tired and cranky from your journey. You need a cuernos de manzana and a strong coffee.

Gracias, Papa. I’m being a brat. Mickey smiled sweetly at her dad. His love language was providing her with treats and hers was accepting them without complaining about how big her behind was getting. Unlike her mom who limited herself to one Mexican pastry on Sunday morning before church and refused to look at the delectable goods the rest of the week.

Mickey took off her form-fitting black leather jacket and slung it over the top of a saffron yellow painted wooden chair before she sat down at one of the three mismatched café tables crammed against the tangerine-colored wall.

Every other available inch of wall space in the storefront was occupied by plexiglass and faux-wood Formica cases full of pan dulce, breads, and cookies and one tall narrow cooler meant for soft drinks stacked with tres leches cakes. In the center of the room was a card table covered in a burgundy vinyl tablecloth which held sheet pans and tongs. A faux-wood Formica counter with low shelving displaying Mexican candies, phone cards, Virgin Mary candles, and Takis stood between the storefront and the back wall where the coffee pot sat on a brown utility cart, boxes of non-food supplies lined up on either side.

Her dad opened the case closest to the front door and used a pair of metal tongs to grab a cinnamon pastry with apple filling and laid it on a square piece of wax paper.

Good morning, Mickey, LeeAnn, the cake decorator said, looking up from her tidy work area at the opposite end of the counter from the cash register. How was the convention?

Hectic. Fun. I learned a few things. Inked a lotta, lotta skin. Mickey raised her hands above her head and cracked her back again. Tomas said for me to say hi. Her brother and LeeAnn had dated in high school their sophomore year and remained friends.

LeeAnn grinned. When’s big city lawyer boy going to grace us with his presence?

Mickey’s dad set the pastry and a cup of coffee down on the table in front of her and then turned his Dodgers cap to the side and gave her his stubble-rough cheek for a kiss.

She obliged.

Yes, when is that son of mine going to visit? Did he look too skinny? I thought he’d thinned out when he was here for your mom’s birthday in February.

Mickey bit into the flaky pastry, the scent of vanilla combined with the mild heat of cinnamon and the buttery apple filling enveloping her in a comforting hug. Instantly, she scattered crumbs all down the front of her black t-shirt, but she’d learned that brushing them away at this early point was futile.

I don’t know, Tomas looked like Tomas. He’s thinking of coming back for Strawberry Fest and asked me if you needed any help with organizing the motorcycle show. She took a sip of coffee. Her dad did not mess around with his coffee. Immediately, like Pavlov’s dog, her brain engine started firing. But I was hoping you’d let me help organize it since I actually live in Cataluma and Tomas doesn’t and at some point, you’re gonna retire from leading the club and it would help if someone else knew how to run the motorcycle show, wouldn’t it?

Mija, I would be happy if you wanted to run the motorcycle show. Perhaps you and Tomas can work together this year and take it completely off my plate?

Her dad retrieved a spray bottle and clean rag out from underneath the register and began wiping the counter down even though it was probably spotless. He was a nervous cleaner. What about this subject was worrying him?

Yeah, okay, Mickey said. I’ll talk to him about it.

The bell on the door rang and her dad’s friend Ed Shipley walked into the bakery, sporting his usual Nike track suit uniform. Mickey was sure he owned one in every color. Hey Roberto. Ladies, he said addressing her and LeeAnn.

Ed picked up a sheet pan and a pair of tongs. Have you tried the stuff from the Ward kid’s place? He’s giving out samples of vegan éclair. I can’t for the life of me figure out what a person would put in those, much less why anyone would want to eat one. He opened the first case and loaded