“Everything okay?”
I jump in my seat at the sound of Ren’s voice and drop my phone. It lands with a sickening crack on the bus floor.
“Zounds!” Ren leans and picks it up.
“Did you just swear in Shakespeare—”
“Let’s move on and pretend I didn’t do that.” Ren’s cheeks are bright red. Sighing in relief when he turns it over, Ren hands me my phone, demonstrating the screen somehow survived the drop. “I’m sorry I startled you.”
“That’s okay.” When I take my phone, our fingers brush, and a crack of electricity snaps through my skin. I yelp and pull away, a scowl tightening my mouth. I always look murderous when caught off guard because, while most people startle mildly when surprised, I jump out of my skin, adrenaline floods my system, and all I want to do is curl up into the fetal position. It’s unsettling and embarrassing.
“You okay?” Ren asks.
“I’m fine.” I make a fist and release it. My hand’s trembling. “That didn’t hurt you?”
He shrugs. “I felt a jolt. But I was expecting it.”
Expecting it. What does that mean?
Ren’s eyes are on me, his mouth shifting from an easy grin to a frown of concern. “You don’t look okay. What’s up?”
I glance at my phone, staring at Annie’s text. “My ride home fell through. I’m a grouch when it comes to a change in plans, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll figure it out.”
“Let me give you a ride.” When he sees my uneasy look, he nudges my thigh gently. “You’ve already been in the minivan. You know how cool it is. How can you say no?”
His eyes hold mine, that easy, gentle smile in place. Something tells me getting in that van alone with Ren is asking for trouble. But weighed against a late-night Uber ride with a possibly cane-fetishizing murderer—laugh all you want, but it’s a statistical possibility and those aren’t chances I want to take, even when chances are slim—it’s not enough to deter me.
“All right,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
Ren’s smile widens, before he schools his expression. “Cool.” He picks up his book and doesn’t say another word.
When our bus rolls to a stop outside the practice facility, Ren stands and stretches. It sets his hips at my eye level and it’s too easy to picture him more than shirtless—pale skin, the shadow of hair arrowing down his stomach…
I glance away furiously as heat floods my cheeks. After fumbling with shoving my phone in my bag, I ease up from my seat, stifling a moan of discomfort. My joints practically creak as I straighten, a process that takes longer than it should. When I hike my bag onto my shoulder and stand fully, I notice Ren’s positioned himself slightly behind our row of seats, his arms braced on each side, sealing off the row until I’m clear.
Half the guys stand behind him, eyes on their phones, their small carry-on bags on their shoulders. They’re waiting.
“Sorry!” I call. “Granny Frankie’s slow moving.”
A bunch of variations of “You’re good, Frankie” travel the bus. Taking my time down those stupid steep steps off the bus, I make it out into the balmy California air waiting for us and draw in a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, weight leaves my shoulder. I gape as I watch Ren fluidly hoist my bag up his arm, as he hauls not only his equipment—yes, the man insists on carrying his own equipment and not letting the lowly assistants schlep his stuff—but also both of our suitcases, all with the use of one good arm.
“I’m feeling slightly useless,” I yell. “And you’re supposed to be careful of your shoulder.”
Ren grins back at me. “My shoulder’s fine. Besides, I’m antsy. I had to sit on my butt and watch a game. Just getting a little functional fitness in.”
Ignoring the option to drop off some of his stuff in the facility, Ren pulls out his keys, and the van’s trunk hatch opens with a chirp. After neatly loading our luggage, Ren steps to my side to open the door for me, waiting as I slide into the seat and buckle up. My laptop bag is set neatly at my feet before he closes my door and jogs over to his side.
Our practice facility is in El Segundo, a ten-minute drive west of my rented bungalow in Hawthorne, which is the opposite direction from Ren’s house in Manhattan Beach. I feel bad about making him go out of his way to take me home, but having a safe ride back is worth taking this bite of humble pie.
Before he pulls out, Ren turns on the radio and picks a station that’s quiet but strummy. Guitars, violins, maybe even a ukulele. The man’s voice is gentle and soft. It’s relaxing. I stifle a sigh as I settle into the soft leather of my seat and crack open my window, hoping it’ll wake me up a bit from this dreamy stupor his car’s putting me in.
“You can change the music, if you want.” Ren watches the road carefully, then crosses traffic.
“I like it. Thanks, though.”
He nods and focuses on the road. Ren looks absurdly right driving a minivan. I can just picture him years down the road, behind the wheel, a few more lines at the corners of his eyes, a wedding band claiming his left ring finger. Taking his kids to soccer practice, passing Goldfish bags and juice boxes to the backseat, singing loudly to Disney music on the stereo. And then, stupidly, I see myself in the exact seat I’m in, somehow belonging in that picture.
Honestly, Francesca.
Snapping my glance away, I focus out the window. After a long spate of comfortable quiet, I clear my throat and tell him, “Thanks again for the ride. Sorry to take you out of the way.”
“It’s no problem, Frankie. I’m always happy to give you a ride home.” He takes the right off El Segundo Boulevard onto Inglewood.
Minutes later, we pull up to my house, and Ren unloads my stuff as I fish out my keys from my bag and walk up to the door. I slide my key into the deadbolt first, freezing when I turn and don’t feel the bolt slide back. It’s unlocked. I test the handle. That’s unlocked too.
“What is it?” Ren sets my suitcase gently between us.
“My door…” It comes out hoarse and threadbare. “My door is open.”
“Frankie.” The urgency in Ren’s voice makes my head snap up just in time to realize he’s sweeping me up off my feet, holding my entire body easily in one arm—holy shit—and carrying my suitcase in the other.
I’m stashed in the van, Ren sprints around to the other side, and he drives quickly down the road, before parking and opening his phone. I watch his fingers dial 911.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask him.
Ren glances up at me as the phone rings. “Calling the police. Most violence related to burglaries happens during break-ins, when the homeowner walks in on the intruders. If someone’s still in there—Hi, yes…”
I stare at Ren as he speaks calmly with that composed, even voice he uses on the ice, the one that he used after Maddox got drunk and stupid on me.
I always find it fascinating to watch people like Ren in action during a crisis. People whose stress response isn’t shutting down their ability to function. Ren’s the guy who thinks analytically and keeps his shit together when the world’s burning. I’m the one who sinks to the floor and forgets how to breathe.