Page 103 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 2
DECLAN
Five minutes into the ride, and I was having second thoughts. Not because Finn was struggling—he wasn't. In fact, he was doing surprisingly well for a beginner. No, I was regretting my decision to let him buy those bike shorts.
The sight of Finn Heller's perfect ass in form-fitting lycra was enough to make a man shoot over his handlebars.
Add in the way the September sunlight caught the highlights in his hair and the genuine joy that transformed his face every time we rounded a bend to a new view, and I was pretty much fucked.
"This is incredible!" he called over his shoulder, his face alight with that expression of wonder I'd come to cherish. It was the look of someone who'd spent most of his life on carefully controlled sets, suddenly discovering real wilderness. "Why didn't I start doing this years ago?"
"Because you were busy being America's sweetheart?" I teased, slowing as we approached a gentle bend in the trail.
He rolled his eyes dramatically, a move I was fairly certain he'd perfected around age eight while filming Cast in Clover. "I think you mean America's boy next door. There's a difference."
"Not to me. You'll always be a sweetheart."
"Cheesy," he laughed, but his cheeks flushed that particular shade of pink that meant I'd scored a direct hit to his heart.
The trail began to climb, gradually at first, then steeper. I shifted gears, making sure Finn did the same.
"Downshift before you need to," I reminded him. "It's easier to maintain momentum than to try to regain it."
He nodded, fumbling slightly with the shifters but managing. His breathing grew heavier as we climbed, but he kept pace, determination evident in the set of his jaw.
"You know," he said between breaths, his thigh muscles moving and bunching under those damned shorts, "when I first moved to Aster Valley, I thought I'd just be climbing all the time. Never imagined myself doing this."
"Do you miss LA?” I asked, voicing a question that still occasionally nagged at me, despite all evidence pointing to Finn being happy here.
He considered this as we crested the hill, pausing to catch his breath.
"Parts of it. I miss some of the restaurants.
My stylist." He grinned. "But mostly, no.
This feels right. Teaching, being here with you, being in a place where people eventually stop seeing me as Chip Clover and just see me as Mr. Heller, the slightly overenthusiastic drama teacher. "
"Slightly?"
"Hey! The kids appreciate my passion."
"They do," I agreed, thinking of how Solo and his friends had transformed under Finn's guidance. "You're good with them. Better than good."
Pride blossomed across his face, making my chest tighten. "Thanks. It means a lot, coming from you." He took a swig from his hydration pack's tube, managing to make it look both awkward and endearing. "What about you? Ever miss LA?"
"I miss my family," I admitted. "And sometimes I miss the action of working in a big city department. But mostly, no. Especially not now."
"Because of me?" he batted his eyelashes exaggeratedly.
"Don't fish for compliments," I said, though we both knew the answer was yes. Having Finn in my life had transformed Aster Valley from a place of refuge into a home.
"Ready for the fun part?" I asked, nodding toward the trail ahead, which began to descend through a series of gentle curves.
Finn's eyes widened slightly. "Define 'fun.'"
"The downhill. Just remember to keep your weight back, feather the brakes instead of grabbing them, and?—"
"Look where I want to go, not at obstacles," he finished. "Got it. I memorized your entire safety lecture, Sheriff."
"I'll go first, you follow my line," I said, moving ahead. "If it feels too fast, just pull over and walk it. No shame in that."
With that, I pushed off, letting gravity pull me down the trail. I kept my speed moderate, aware of Finn following behind, occasionally glancing back to see how he was doing.
He seemed to handle it well, his form surprisingly good for a beginner. His face showed intense concentration, but also unmistakable exhilaration. We flew down the trail, through stands of aspen trees that created dancing patterns of light and shadow on the ground.
Everything was going smoothly until we hit the first technical section—a short stretch with exposed roots crossing the trail. I navigated it easily, my tires bouncing over the roots without issue. I pulled to the side and turned to watch Finn approach.
He was doing fine until he looked down—the exact thing I had warned against. His front wheel hit a root at an angle, and in that instant, physics took over. The bike stopped; Finn didn't.
It happened in slow motion: Finn's body pitching forward, his hands gripping the brakes too late, his expression morphing from concentration to surprised horror as the bike angled sideways and skidded out from under him.
"Finn!" I shouted, dropping my own bike and rushing toward where he had landed with a thud and a very distinctly non-PG exclamation.