by Chloe Liese
I tell myself to breathe, even as heat simmers beneath my skin and every hair on my arms stands up. It’s probably reading Sense and Sensibility for book club this month, but what is it that’s so sensual about the simple touching of hands? How can sharing the barest contact feel so intimate?
After a few minutes, I gently set his hand on the bed. Before I can pull it away, he slides his palm against mine, how our mouths and bodies move in my daydreams. Soft, slow. Hot. Close.
Our fingers lock, and I don’t know who did it first, only that it happened.
“‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine,’” he whispers, eyes still shut, “‘the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’”
I swallow nervously. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“Ten points for Slytherin. Ten more if you can tell me what Romeo’s saying.”
I grin at him. Ren would know what House of Hogwarts I’m in, not that I’m terribly hard to peg. “That Juliet’s hand is a place Romeo feels unworthy of, too pure for him to touch. Which is clearly just a pick-up line, considering he admits he shouldn’t hold her hand and offers to make it up to her by kissing her.”
Ren’s hand squeezes mine. “And how does Juliet feel about that?”
Breath leaves me, short and fast. My heart’s pounding, emotion knotting in my throat. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You have an incredible memory. It’s like you see something once and you can recall it.”
I don’t exactly have a photographic memory, but I do have a damn good one.
“You knew that line from Hamlet,” he presses. “Every Shakespeare play about a king.”
God, he’s such a dork. So kissable.
But I can’t do it. Not when he’s a virgin for Christ’s sake, someone waiting faithfully for a woman to love and cherish and give everything to. He and I are literally on opposite ends of the spectrum. I have no business kissing him.
Newsflash: you already have.
Okay, I have no business kissing him anymore.
I stare at our hands, tangled together. “‘Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’”
“Mhm,” he says blearily, his grip slackening in mine. “‘Let lips do what hands do.’” Bringing our hands right over his heart, he knots our fingers tighter, and sighs. “‘They pray.’”
His breathing steadies. His face grows slack. And I let myself steal the faintest touch of his face. I smooth his beard, whisper my knuckles against his cheek, up to his temple.
“What are you doing to me, Ren?” I whisper. “What am I going to do?”
His hand twitches in mine, but his features are smooth, clearly deep in sleep. I stay, holding his hand, smoothing his hair. Longer than I should.
Much longer.
This is why I’ve spent the past four years of my life locked down. Because when I keep my heart and feelings and body closed off, I don’t find myself waking up nauseously emotional, horny to the point of distraction, or horribly slept. I don’t do stupid things like sit with a ginger giant for an hour, until my eyes droop and my joints start screaming for their own bed to sleep in. I don’t have dreams that I can’t remember except for what they made me feel. Hot. Lonely. Hungry.
It’s all Ren’s fault.
I’m sore and tired as we stumble off the bus back in LA. My little Civic flashes her lights as I unlock her from across the parking lot and hoist my carry-on bag higher up my shoulder.
“Frankie.” Ren jogs toward me, hauling all his shit. Really, when is the guy going to let the minions be minions for him?
“Yes?” My stomach tightens, seeing him run my way. We spent the day tacitly avoiding each other. Or maybe I avoided him.
Okay, I avoided him. Because this is what my stomach did every time I looked at him. And what was there to say? Hey, I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I’m having lots of feelings for you which revolve around fascination, desire, and bone-chilling fear. I’m an unfiltered person, but even I know that would be too much.
I want to kiss Ren and push him away. I want a bath and a bike ride. I need a night alone and a weekend with my friends.
I’m coming unhinged.
He catches up to me. “Can I follow you to your place?”
“You want to follow me?”
His cheeks turn red. “That came out wrong. I wanted to come with you but drive my own car, and let you drive yours. Because it’s your first time going back to your place since…everything happened. I was going to offer to just do a walk-through, make sure you feel safe.”
Buh-bye somersaults. Now my stomach’s graduated to back handsprings. I grip my cane so hard my knuckles ache. “Well, that’s really thoughtful of you. But I was going to pick up Pazza first from Lorena. Echo Park’s even more out of your way. That’ll make for a late night.”
“I figured you’d want to go get Pazza,” he says without missing a beat. “It’ll help you feel safer to have her there. And no, I don’t mind the drive. I need some quiet in the car after days with the hooligans, anyway.”
He takes a step closer. “Please, Frankie? It’ll give me peace of mind, too.”
His hair rustles in the wind, unruly and backlit by the glow of the practice facility. Those wintry eyes sparkle beneath long sable lashes, tipped with auburn. How do you say no to someone as beautiful as Ren Bergman?
Especially when he’s even more beautiful on the inside.
I don’t know. He’s got a heart of gold but buns of steel. It’s a toss-up which is better.
“Okay,” I say on a sigh.
His hand reaches and squeezes mine, then gently releases it before I even process what he’s done. My palm burns from that fleeting contact, as last night’s touch rushes to the forefront of my memory.
Without a word, he slips my bag off my shoulder and soldiers ahead of me.
Dragging my feet the whole way to my car, I follow Ren, who holds open my door, merrily sets my bag in the trunk, then double taps it like some chipper bellhop.
He rushes over to his van which is parked right next to mine and waves me to go first. I decide to turn on my audiobook, since book club meets soon, and I am way behind on Sense and Sensibility.
It’s not my favorite Austen. There’s something about the story that makes me sad as I read it. Their father’s death and the grief it brings the Dashwood women. How unfair it is, estates being entailed away from a man’s own daughters to their male cousin. Marianne’s immature romanticism, the way she so easily overlooks Colonel Brandon’s kindness to her and falls for that asshole Willoughby.
Then there’s poor Elinor. Just day after day, hiding her heart for Edward, because she’s mindful of what it could cost her and her family if she expressed affection for a man whose feelings she’s unsure of. She’s so dutiful. So patient. She deals with a low-functioning mother, a sister who’s doing everything Elinor isn’t—throwing caution to the wind, madly chasing her impulses—all while mothering the youngest daughter, Margaret. Her existence feels so heavy that I’m tired of duty dragging Elinor down.
“Sense will always have attractions for me,” the narrator reads.
“Damn straight.” That I can empathize with. Because being sensible keeps you safe.
My fingers tightly grip my steering wheel, and I’m grinding my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I have to get my head on straight. Yes, it’s true I find Ren attractive. Yes, I have a tender spot for the six-foot-three cinnamon roll. Yes, he’s a fantastic kisser, especially for a virgin, which leads me back to a not-infrequent thought lately that a primal part of me wishes I got to be his first. Because someone like him deserves the best first time, and while I’m not saying I’m some sex prodigy, I think I could please him. I know I sure as hell would enjoy trying. Teasing, adoring, and savoring this romantic, kind, gentlemanly, nerdy, hotter than sin—
Shit, I need to stop.
I tune back into the audiobook, willing myself to focus on
the story, but Elinor and her damn restraint when it comes to Edward just heaps annoyance on annoyance as I drive, until I’m idling in front of Lorena’s apartment building, yelling, “Just fucking tell him you love him already!”
Ren taps my window, and I startle so violently, I nearly shit myself. Once I can breathe again, I press the button until the window is lowered.
He leans his arms on the ledge and smiles, glancing from my dashboard with the pictured audiobook title to me. “Never seen Austen incense a person like that.”
I turn off the engine and nudge open the door, making him take a step back. “Clearly, you haven’t read Sense and fucking Sensibility.”
“Huh.” He shuts the door behind me, following as I step onto the curb. “I didn’t know the title included such profanity. Must be the unabridged version.”
“It doesn’t,” I grumble. “But it should.”
Ren presses the buzzer for Lo’s unit, and the fact that he knows which one it is after only being here once before, when I was a shell-shocked mess, crying for my dog, just twists the knife deeper in my ice block of a heart.
“I actually haven’t read that one,” he says while we wait. “But you’ve piqued my interest now.”
Before I can tell him to lay off my book club, Lo buzzes us in.
Lorena’s in a certain state of undress that indicates she and Mia were having the cozy times, so I keep my pick-up of Pazza quick. I get her into my car, then drive us home, Ren behind me the whole drive from Echo Park to Hawthorne.
When I pull up to the house, my heart starts pounding. My palms get sweaty. Pazza whines from her seat, and I pet her head, staring at my bungalow rental. The place I would normally be so glad to see looks sinister and unwelcoming. No lights on inside. A new handle and lock that I don’t recognize mounted on the door, meant for the new, unfamiliar key I hold in my hand. It doesn’t feel like coming home.
Sighing, I open my car door, but Ren’s there already, opening it for me, grabbing my bag from the trunk, petting Pazza when she dashes over to him, like this is all just par for the course.
When I get to the door, my hands are shaking. I drop my keys, and Ren bends, scooping them up for me.
He holds them, open in his hand, but his eyes connect with mine. “Do you want me to?”
I nod.
Quickly, Ren slips the key into the lock, lets himself in, and immediately flicks on the lights. It helps a little. My misty gray walls, fresh white trim painted everywhere. The cozy oatmeal-colored couch I’ve snuggled many nights on, decorated with Hogwarts-themed pillows and throw blankets.
Closing the door behind me, Ren turns the bolt and the sound makes me jump. His hand rests warm and steady on my shoulder. One solid squeeze, then he lets go. “You’re safe, Frankie. Your landlord did a good job.”
I nod again, worrying my lip between my teeth.
“Want me to take a walk around upstairs?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
Without another word, Ren heads up my stairs, two at a time, silent as a big cat, his large hand wrapped around the banister.
Pazza trots into the kitchen, sniffing around, nudging her bowl.
“I know,” I tell her. “I’m coming.”
Feeding her calms me a little bit. I’m a creature of habit, and this is our routine when I pick her up from Lo’s. We come inside, I feed her dinner, then we head out to my tiny patch of backyard as she snuffles around, then does her business. After that, we curl up on the couch and read. Well, I read. Pazza lies on top of me and vies for my attention.
I hear Ren’s footsteps roaming upstairs. Opening and closing closet doors. My shower curtain being snapped back, then straightened.
A smile tugs at my mouth as I open the container of dog food Lo made for Pazza and drop it into her bowl. He’s upstairs, checking every nook and cranny.
As stupid as it is to get all feely about it, I do. I stand in my kitchen, savoring the sounds of care, because soon they’ll be gone. I’ll be back to being alone.
You like being alone.
Pazza whines, bumping my hand with her head. “We’ll be fine,” I whisper to her.
On a snort, she pulls back and shakes her coat, those pale gold eyes boring into me. Sure, Mom, they say. Keep telling yourself that.
17
Frankie
Playlist: “Sirens,” Cher Lloyd
“Frankie?” Ren calls from the steps. When he stops at the bottom of them, I stare at him, his tall frame filling the entranceway.
“Hi.”
Super eloquent, Francesca, the little devil on my shoulder whispers.
I’m not trying to be eloquent, devil side. I’m trying not to rip off his clothes.
Ren smiles as a stray wave of hair flops across his forehead. Pushing it back absently, he strolls into the kitchen. “I did a thorough search. And trust me, with extensive experience in obscure and wildly unsafe hiding places, thanks to too many long Washington winters cooped up with bored, hyper siblings, I can assure you that your house is completely unoccupied, but for you and me.”
Pazza barks at him and cocks her head.
He grins down at her, scratching her ear when she trots his way and drops to her haunches at his feet. “And Pazza, of course.”
I stare at him, as my heart bangs against my ribs, an inmate shaking its prison bars.
Let me out. Please. Just this once.
Drawing in a jagged breath, I spin away and beeline it for the back door. As I throw open the door, I whistle and snap my fingers in signal to Pazza. She bolts past me, jumping immediately at some insect that dances across the grass.
My throat tightens as I hug my arms around my middle. I hear the quiet rustle of Ren’s steps, smell that clean, spicy scent that warms his skin.
His hand gently grips my elbow. “Are you okay?”
I nod without meeting his eyes, feigning concentration on Pazza. “I’m fine. I just needed some fresh air. Thank you for checking the house for me.”
He steps closer. “I was happy to do it, Frankie.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. It feels like my heart’s rattling my ribs loose, it’s pounding so violently inside my chest. If he touches me any further, I won’t be strong enough to resist Ren anymore. I’ll throw myself at him, beg him to give me everything for just a little while. To give me for now until he can have forever with her.
Her.
God, my blood boils, and a kick of anger surges through my veins. I hate her. I’m wildly jealous of this woman, who I can only assume is entirely, completely worthy of him. And I know, I trust that she is, because I trust Ren. He’s measured and thoughtful. He has his head screwed on straight. He values the right things.
She’s probably an understated beauty, because Ren’s too wholesome to need a knockout—he only asks for beauty from within. She’s one of those rescue-shelter volunteers who bakes perfectly circular chocolate chip cookies and makes friends with all the grandmas on the block. She wants three kids—two boys and a girl—and she loves to scrapbook. She also reads those criminally sex-free romances and is the least erotically adventurous woman on the planet—
Whoa, there, Francesca. Getting a little nasty, aren’t we?
Well, yes. My thoughts have turned uncharitable. That’s my jealousy talking. That’s my covetous envy. A fierce possessiveness for someone I have no right to. An unwarranted, unfair animosity toward a woman I should be happy for.
“I want to apologize, Frankie. About last night.”
I spin, tugged out of my thoughts. “What?”
Ren frowns up at me from his crouched position, petting Pazza. “I don’t remember everything, because that headache was…unearthly painful, and I’d taken one of the pills for it that Amy prescribed me, but I have a vague memory of being very into hand holding.”
Heat rushes through me as I bite my lip. God, you’d think we’d made out, the way thinking of it affects me. “You were.”
He grimaces. “It was unprofessional of me. I�
��m sorry.” His face transforms to a wide smile as Pazza licks his face, perching her muddy paws on his knees.
“Pazza, down.” My voice is sharp, and she drops immediately, jogging over to me.
Ren slowly stands with a look of wariness on his face. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just Pazza. Sh-she’ll ruin your slacks.” I point at the grass and mud staining his knees.
He smiles and shrugs. “I don’t care, Frankie. I can do my laundry. I’m a spot-treating wizard, actually.”
“Of course, you are.” I can’t get a stain out of my clothes to save my life.
Why do all these little things about him add up to something so perfectly right to me? Why does he have to be so wonderful?
Why do I have to be so fucked up?
“Frankie.” Ren closes the distance between us, sending the heat of his body pouring over me. “Why do I feel like you’re avoiding the topic?”
“What topic?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Of last night.”
“Oh. Well. I mean, you weren’t yourself.” I wave a hand, taking a step back. The breeze sends his warm spiciness my way. He smells too tempting. “Non compos mentis and all. It’s fine.”
The line etched between his brows deepens. “Why do you seem upset, then? Tell me what’s wrong, please, Frankie.” Ren’s eyes search mine.
“I can’t.”
I can’t feel this way about you. I can’t want you. I can’t do this.
Something in his face changes, as his gaze dances over my features, like he’s read my mind.
“Can I ask you something?” he says softly.
No.
Nothing good’s going to come of it, I can feel it already. He misinterprets my silence as assent.
“Was there…” Ren swallows, raking a hand through his hair. “What did you say last night when I was falling asleep? It’s on the edge of my memory. But I can’t recall it.”
My heart thunders. Shit. Shit. “Um…nothing. I-it was nothing.”
His eyes search mine. “Is it nothing because you didn’t mean it? Or is it nothing because you’re not sure you want me to have heard it, if I did hear it, that is?”