Chapter Five #2
Just Ren is enough. He lifts me up and makes me feel as though I could touch the stars if I wanted to.
Ren gives me a few minutes to compose myself, and when I finally meet his gaze, I simply say, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
“We all do from time to time,” he says in response.
Sensing our conversation has taken a much too heavy turn for the time and place, Ren gets to his feet.
“I buy a book every time I come here. Today, I’m going to pick one just for you.”
“For me?” I touch my chest, just above my heart.
“Yep, it’ll be one you’ll treasure forever. A book that is so meaningful, you’ll be floored.”
Okay. Serious time is over. His levity is not lost on me.
Then he pauses and points at me like he’s saying, You, Bree. It’s you. I have no idea how to respond. So I don’t.
“Give me five minutes,” he says, tongue clearly in cheek.
He starts to peruse the shelves with pretend concentration. He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he makes a big show of his monumental decision.
“Five minutes for a book I’ll treasure forever? I think I’m insulted.” I roll my eyes.
“Shhh, the master is at work.” His half smile makes an appearance.
I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face. The emotional roller coaster is taking me for quite a ride today.
Dressed as nicely as Ren is, he doesn’t look like he belongs here in this bohemian restaurant.
But the real Ren, underneath the fancy clothes, fits in perfectly.
The combination makes him enigmatic. I can’t figure him out or pinpoint exactly who he is.
I only know that he’s here when I need someone the most, and I’m going to embrace what he’s offering.
He hovers one hand over each book as though some power will magically tell him which is the right one. It takes him longer than five minutes, but he finally pulls out one, studies the cover, laughs under his breath and says, “Aha, found it.”
He sets the book on the table. “Here it is. The one meant just for you. Finances are your thing, after all.”
The hardcover book is bright orange. The front cover boasts, in bold black letters, HOW TO MAKE MONEY IN YOUR SPARE TIME.
Included on the cover is a picture of a man in a ski mask with only his eyes showing—in other words, a burglar.
Written by 673126. Then in parentheses it says: The author’s pen name.
It’s so ridiculous, I burst out laughing. “Yeah, okay. I give in. I love it.” I cradle it to my chest. It really is a treasure. It will always remind me of Ren and the way he makes me feel, the way he makes me laugh.
He watches me with a small smile on his face, his eyes bright, as though it brings him pleasure to see me happy.
He knows I’m emotionally fragile right now. I think I hide that side of me from the world quite well. Ren sees right through me, like he’s looking at my soul with a microscope.
He’s easing us into friendship, and it’s exactly what I need. Slow and steady.
Of course, this is the third time I’ve seen him since meeting him last Friday, with plans for more tomorrow night. I suppose that’s not slow.
But he’s not asking for anything from me. No pressure, no expectations, no rules. Just us. Supporting each other, providing comfort. Having someone at my side, just being with me, feels more comforting than anything I’ve ever experienced.
While my thoughts wander to taboo places in his presence, I appreciate the person he is. In many ways, I’d love to hide behind a bookshelf and kiss him senseless while I run my hands through his thick hair, messing it up thoroughly. But I recognize it would change the dynamic between us.
I clear my throat. Subject change. Now. “Do you cook, Ren? You’re clearly a foodie.”
He takes a seat. “I do. It’s a hobby, though. Nothing more. I cook a huge spread every Sunday afternoon.”
I have an image in my head of him in tight-fitting jeans with a white V-neck t-shirt, barefoot, in a light-filled house with shiny wood floors.
His kids are playing games on the living room floor, and he’s in the kitchen, making the house smell amazing while he cooks.
If I insert myself into the fantasy, I’m curled up on the couch reading a book.
By 673126.
“If I look at food, it burns,” I tell him.
“Even peanut butter and jelly?”
“Every time.”
He grins. “That bad, huh?”
“You have no idea. I avoid the kitchen at all costs. Disasters await me in there.”
“Hey, I’ll teach you,” he offers.
“If you value your life, you’ll forget you ever offered.”
“I’ll live dangerously just this once.”
He doesn’t realize how serious I am. “You have been warned.”
Ren pulls out his phone, studying his calendar. “Let’s see,” he mumbles. “No, not then. Hmm. How about Saturday afternoon before I go to the restaurant? We’ll squeeze a run in before we cook.”
As long as we get to spend time together, I don’t care what we’re doing. Watching a man work in the kitchen is, well, let’s just say it’s alluring. Okay, sexy. “Out of your entire week, that’s your only free time?”
He taps his fingers on the table. “Pretty much. I work afternoons and nights, you work days.”
He’s right. When will we ever see each other? Of course, we’re managing so far.
There’s Sunday, his family day. But he doesn’t mention it, so I don’t. “I work from home Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I don’t have to be at work until one. I’m usually done with my work by eleven.”
He glances down at his phone. “No, I can’t do Tuesday or Thursday mornings.”
I wait for him to explain further, but he doesn’t. He leaves it at that. “Saturday’s fine with me, as long as we get our run in first. But teaching me to cook is a lost cause. I’m not kidding.”
“I’m not kidding around either,” he tells me with laser-focused eyes.
I have no idea if he’s still talking about cooking. Something tells me he’s not.
He doesn’t want anything from me. Just my time.
I’m willing to give it.
All of it.