He runs a hand over his chin, then slams the door. “Blue eyes.”
“That’s me.” I cast a quick glance at my poor, mangled bike. “If you’re still offerin’ to help…”
Jogging over, he scans me from head to toe, concern furrowing his brows. “What happened?”
“Big-ass puddle in the middle of the damn road. Bigger-ass SUV. Bike meet ditch.” My teeth start to chatter in earnest. Leaning on my handlebars is all that’s keeping me upright. “I ain’t tryin’ to be ungrateful, but do you mind if we finish this conversation inside your car? I’m as cold as a frosted frog.”
“A what?” Despite his obvious confusion, he picks up my bike and sets the crossbar on his shoulder.
“Sorry. Texans have our own language. Just means I’m freezin’.” My hip screams in pain with each step, but I grit my teeth and follow him to the car.
“Where can I take you?” he asks as he wrangles the bike into the back. “And…shit. I don’t even know your name.”
“I live off Beacon Ave. On South Rose Street.” The passenger seat has seen better days. Springs creak as I sink down. But the heater is on full blast, and I hold my hands up to the vents. Everything hurts. Except my fingers. They’re completely numb.
Nash checks his mirrors and flips on the blinker. “Am I supposed to call you ‘West’s blond friend’? Or ‘West’s cycling friend’?” He cuts his gaze to mine for a second, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “‘West’s hot friend’?”
Hot?
“I’m Raelynn. But ‘West’s hot friend’ sounds a hell of a lot nicer. How long you been takin’ classes at the dojo? I don’t remember seein’ you before yesterday.”
Shivering, I pull off my bike helmet to find a glob of mud the size of my thumb stuck to my temple. Great. It’s probably all through my hair, too.
Lightning arcs through the sky, almost blinding me. Shit. The storm is barreling toward us, hell-bent for leather. I huddle lower in the seat, as if the headrest and old vinyl can save me from my memories.
“Raelynn? Did you hear me?” Nash reaches over and touches my shoulder.
My cheeks catch fire—at least they’re finally warm—and I stare down at my knees. “Sorry. You said somethin’ about…hell. I don’t even know. Coffee?”
“I didn’t think the story was that boring.” Nash tries for a laugh, but the sound dies in his throat, and he returns his attention to the road. I should apologize, but the storm’s too close, and all I can do is dig my fingers into my palms until my hands shake.
After another few minutes of awkward silence, Nash slows and turns onto my street. “Which house?”
The next lightning strike is even brighter, and a deafening boom follows on its heels.
Too close.
The harsh scent of manure stings my nose. Then ozone. Burnt flesh. Brooks’s cologne.
No. Not here. Not now.
“Raelynn? What’s wrong?”
The voice isn’t the one I want to hear. The hand covering mine is rough and strong, but bigger than I expect. With a hard blink, I pull myself out of my memories and peer over at him. We’re stopped, the wipers swishing across the windshield at hyper speed.
Orange flashes illuminate Nash’s forehead. His wet hair. A thick scar above his eyebrow. Hazard lights.
“I called your name three times. Where’d you go?”
My lips…I can’t feel them. Another peal of thunder shakes the car. “S-sorry. Must be the c-cold. Ain’t thinkin’ clearly.”
He knows that’s total bullshit, but just when I think he’s gonna call me on it, he shakes his head. “Which house is yours? We need to get you inside and warm.” The concern in his tone makes my eyes burn. No one’s tried to take care of me in so long, I forgot what it feels like. But I don’t let anyone see this side of me.
Hell, Nash is a complete stranger. I shouldn’t let him see any side of me.
“I can get myself warm.” Glancing out the window at the raging storm, I gesture to the end of the block. “Four-sixty-two. That’s me.”
He casts his gaze between me and the house, then sighs. “Fine.” Less than a minute later, he pulls into my driveway and stares up at the hundred-and-thirty-year-old Craftsman with its wide-open porch and big picture windows.
