Page 6 of Lovingly Restored

Embarrassment.

Pain.

Fear.

For the first time, I consider what it means for her to accept a ride from me. A man. A stranger. Here I am, worrying about her well-being if I leave her in the middle of nowhere, but it didn’t cross my mind that she might believemeto be a bigger threat than exposure to the elements.

Male privilege much, Lauri?

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but you can trust me. I’m on my way home from work. I’m Isaac.” I sport the sincerest expression I can muster while wearing underwear that feel like they’re straight out of the washing machine. My statement hangs between us.

“Ashlyn.” She reaches up with a mucky hand. “And I suppose I have no choice.”

I rise out of my squat, pulling her up with a bit too much force and nearly flattening her against my chest.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“That’s okay.”

She releases my hand and squares her shoulders towards the truck, ready to try again. Next to her, itdoeslook like a monster truck. Hovering a few steps behind her, I decide to wait in case she’s the world’s clumsiest woman. She plants a black and previously white sneaker firmly on the runner, making an adorable grunting sound as she throws herself into the cab. She perches up there like she didn’t scrape herself out of the mud a moment before.

“I did it.” Her expression is smug as she settles into the cab.

“Congratulations,” I say dryly, shutting the door behind her and thanking myself for spending on the leather seats.

Glorious dry warmth pours into the cab.

“Oh my god, I forgot how nice it is to have a heater.”

Wiggling herself to the edge of the seat, she’s pressed as close to the vents as possible.

“What, your car doesn’t have heat?”

She glares over at me, “No.”

My fingertips burn and tingle as they thaw, and I remove my coat the whole way this time, tossing it into the backseat.

“Can I take your coat?”

I sound ridiculous. Like I’m offering to hang her wool pea coat in the front hall closet before we enjoy a nightcap. Instead, we look like drowned rats in their natural habitat: a sewer.

“Sure.” Her hands are still shaking as she eases the zipper of her pink windbreaker down. I don’t dare offer to help, but it’s painful to see how much she struggles with the simple task. The woman is halfway to hypothermia.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can drive you to urgent care or something.”

“God, no. I just need to get out of these clothes and into a warm bed.”

I groan, “I’m down for that.”

Shit. Realizing how that sounded, I scrub my hand down my face. “Like, my own clothes. At my place. In my bed.”

She looks at me like I’m an utter idiot, shaking her head as she pulls her phone from her pocket, tossing her coat to join mine. “I figured. Don’t worry. I doubt that you’re coming on to me looking like this.” She gestures to her body with one hand.

I can’t help but take a quick glance. Her long-sleeved, white shirt clings to her figure; whatever bra she’s wearing does fuck all to hide how cold she is. The snug denim is so covered in filth that it’s hard to determine the intended wash. She seems a few years younger than me, maybe mid-twenties, and she’s pretty as hell. Even when she’s mad.

“Perfect. It’s dead now.” She frowns at her black phone screen then tips her head back against the seat. “There goes my idea to text your face to a dozen friends for safety.”

“That’ll make my master plan a lot easier,” I say as I push my wet sleeves up.

---