Saving ren saviour serie.., p.13
Saving Ren: Saviour Series Book One, page 13
I smile as I unlock my car, knowing full well who Florence is; my mum was a nurse after all.
The black sack Jo put Lauren’s clothes in has emptied its contents over my back seat, and when I start stuffing Lauren’s cardigans back into it, I see just how bloodstained it is.
“Hey, would you do me a favour in the morning?”
“Go for it. Whadya need?”
“It’s not for me, it’s for Ren. Would you pop into Target and get her some basics? I’m gonna dump the cardigan she had on last night. She doesn’t need to be seeing that.”
“Gabe, anyone ever tell you you’re a sweetheart? Why haven’t you been snapped up and married before now? And Ren? That is seriously cute.”
I pull the bag of meds from the car, leave everything else of Lauren’s inside and close the door. Pausing at my front door, I allow a flash of a memory from a life that now feels like it wasn’t actually mine to hit.
“I was married, remember? All be it briefly, but I was married.” I deflect by ignoring the Ren remark and make Jo feel bad by reminding her of my failed marriage.
“Shit, yeah. Sorry, I forgot all about that.”
“I try to.”
“Sorry.”
“Honestly, not a problem. Listen, I’m gonna sort Lauren out with some pain meds. If you could grab her some clothes tomorrow, that’d be great.”
“No worries.”
I end the call, head back into the house and up the stairs to find a sleeping Lauren curled into the corner of my sofa.
After a debate with myself as to whether I should just leave her to sleep where she is, I eventually carry her to my room. Despite lifting her as carefully as I can, she half wakes up, mumbles something about a ‘suntannedie surfie sex God’ before curling back up on her side and snoring quietly.
I watch her for a minute, wondering what the fuck it is I think I’m doing with this woman in my bed. This isn’t me; this isn’t what my life has been about for the last however many years, and now look at me. Falling all over myself to look after a woman I’ve only known for twenty-four hours.
Zac’s words from last night resonate through my head. . . ‘Mate, when you meet that person, your person. . . when that happens, you’ll know, believe me. That first time you look at her, something will just click, and it’ll be like, ‘now that’s what I’m talking about,’ and that’s when you’ll be truly fucked.’
And right now, that’s what I am. Just minutes after Zac had said all that, it happened. I laid eyes on Lauren, and something happened that I would describe as more of a shift than a click. A shift from only having a vague indifference to most of the women I chat to in the pub on a Friday night to really wanting to talk to her, wanting to know about her.
Feeling like a perv standing over her while she’s so defenceless, I resist the urge to lay a kiss on her cheek. Instead, I rub my palm over my stubble and head back out to lie on my sofa.
I flip the telly on, but can’t get into anything, so turn it off after about ten minutes. I sneak into my bathroom, clean my teeth, and grab a pillow from next to where Lauren is now snoring. Flipping on the lamp on the opposite side of the bed, I turn the rest of the lights out, and head back to the sofa.
It’s been a long fucking day, and despite staring up at the ceiling for what feels like forever, I must eventually go off to sleep.
Rolling onto the floor and landing on my knees, I instinctively know to put my hand out to steady myself on the coffee table. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been asleep, and I’m not sure what woke me.
Tapping my phone, it lights up to display three-twenty am. Just as I sit my arse back on my sofa, I hear it, Lauren’s talking in her sleep.
Standing up, I make my way to the bedroom. When I walk into the room, she’s still lying curled on her side, hands tucked under her chin, but has hooked one leg out of the bed.
She’s facing away from the lamp I left on, so I can barely make out her face in the dim light, but there’s no mistaking the whimper, followed by a loud sob coming from her.
Moving to the edge of the bed, I crouch down beside her. She continues to whimper and mumble, so I lay the palm of one hand on her shoulder, and with my other, I brush her hair from her face. She mumbles something about angels and seems to settle. When her breathing evens out, I move my hand away.
Still feeling awkward being so close as she sleeps, I back my creepy arse towards the door, but before I reach it, Lauren turns on to her back, arms and legs flailing, before curling into the foetal position on her side and shouting a loud, “No,” followed by more whimpering and mumbling. I go back to the sofa and collect my pillow before returning to the bedroom and climbing into bed. Curling myself in behind her, it’s only when I rest my hand on her hip, the whimpering and mumbling stops.
Her breathing once again evens out as she begins to snore. . . not so quietly.
I should probably feel at least a small shred of guilt for climbing into bed with a practically unconscious woman, but I don’t. As long as Lauren gets the sleep she obviously needs, I’ll deal with the consequences of our sleeping arrangements when she wakes up later.
I don’t remember the last time I went to sleep with a woman next to me. I’ve never brought one back to my home, and I usually only hang around after sex for any length of time to be polite, and that varies according to the situation. Sometimes I’ll leave a woman sleeping, other times we might have an awkward conversation before I head off. Very occasionally, I’ll hook up with someone with zero expectations, and we’ll end our time together with a ‘Thanks, I’ll see you around.’ Those kinds of nights are so few and far between that lately, it’s been simpler to rely on my right hand.
The fact I like my relationships drama free and to last just the one night has me again wondering what the actual fuck I’m doing, feeling so fucking happy to be in my bed, wrapped around a woman I barely know, who’s wearing my clothes, and smelling of my shampoo and body wash.
After gently kissing her temple, I lay my head next to hers and only have what feels like a few moments to debate with myself if this is really what I want or need in my life before finally drifting back off to sleep.
Chapter 16
Lauren
As I drag myself back to consciousness, I fight to open my eyes and remind myself exactly where I went to sleep last night. My brain takes a very long moment to catch up as I process that I’m way too hot, and nothing smells familiar. The fabric softener the pillow has been washed in isn’t what I use, my own body doesn’t smell of me, and what the fuck am I wearing?
Blinking a few times, a bare-chested Gabriel Wild finally comes into all its glorious focus. When my eyes travel up his throat, over his darkly stubbled jaw, perfectly straight nose, and sharp cheekbones, they meet his, looking down at me. I quickly close mine again, hoping that by blocking the beautiful distraction in the bed beside me, it will prompt my brain into remembering how exactly we ended up here. Together. In his bed.
I come up with nothing.
Slowly reopening my eyes, I’m drawn first to the smirk he’s wearing, then back to his eyes looking down at me.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey,” I croak in response. Clearing my throat, I lick my lips before gesturing with my hand between us. “What. . . how did. . ?”
“You were dreaming, sobbing, crying, talking. The only way I could stop you was by resting my hand on you.”
I’m lying on my side as he sits with his back to the headboard, looking up, I focus on his bare chest for a moment, but that just makes my mind blank out, so instead, my gaze traces the path of his happy trail to where it disappears beneath the doona. Lifting it, I nod in confirmation, or maybe it’s admiration, of the fact he’s wearing a pair of jocks, and nothing else.
“And you obviously needed to be nearly naked to do that?” I question.
He shrugs.
“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t plan it that way?”
This time I shrug. Before I get a chance to ask for an explanation, he gives me one.
“I went down to get your meds from the car, when I came back up you were asleep on the sofa. I debated leaving you there but thought you might be uncomfortable, so I carried you to bed. I got out of my jeans and T, set myself up on the sofa, and was sleeping out there until you woke me up around three-thirty this morning talking and crying in your sleep.”
I remain curled on my side, looking up at him as he talks.
“What was I saying?” I ask while trying to recall any dreams I might’ve had.
“Something about an angel, and a suntannedie sex God, other than that, nothing I could make sense of.”
I close my eyes for a long moment as I inwardly groan. I’d like to bury my head under the doona and hide my face from him, but he’s virtually naked under there, and the sight could possibly induce a hot flush, which is something I definitely don’t need right now.
“What’s a suntannedie sex God?” he asks. I can hear the smile in his voice but refuse to look up and witness it.
“No idea, Thor, maybe? After he’s been on holiday and comes back all brown?”
“Right,” he says quietly.
Slowly and carefully, I sit myself up and push my back against the headboard next to him.
“What were you dreaming about?” his voice still quiet and low.
“I honestly don’t know. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I remember sitting on your sofa thinking that you were taking a long time down at your car. . .”
“I was talking to Jo on the phone. She said your husband turned up, had a bit of a rant about everyone knowing where you are and keeping it from him, and then he left.”
I turn my head enough to watch him puff out his cheeks and exhale a long, slow breath, but still don’t meet his eyes. I expect him to say something, instead he scratches at his stubbly jaw.
“What?” I question.
“Don’t go back to Jo’s.”
“What?” I screw my nose up in confusion.
“Jo’s going to come around here this morning sometime, I think she’s expecting you to go back to hers with her, don’t go.”
Muted sunlight shines through the sheers at the windows, illuminating the room enough for me to be able to vaguely make out our reflections in the screen of the television mounted on the wall opposite the bed.
I’m grateful not to be able to see my image in any kind of detail. I can only imagine the mess I must look, especially compared to Mr Wild in all his perfection.
I’m still wearing the trackies and hoodie Gabe gave me last night, and after what he just said, I am way, way, too warm.
These thoughts run parallel through my head, right alongside his words. My brain is trying to process all of this while attempting to formulate an answer.
“Why?” Is all I come up with.
I watch his eyes dart all over my face and wait for his response.
“Can I be frank?”
I shrug. “You can be whoever you want. I can call you Princes or Philomena if it’ll make you happy?” I suggest.
He rolls his eyes, I grin. Who knew I could be this hilarious first thing in the morning?
“That’s, that was terrible. Like the female equivalent of a dad joke.”
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Yeah, it really was, but anyway, what I mean is, can I be blunt?”
“Go for it,” I tell him with a definite nod.
“Jo has no gates at the front of her place, I do. Your husband is likely to go back there until he finds out where you are. What if you’re there on your own?”
I open my mouth to tell him I’ll hide, that I won’t open the door, but he continues.
“Right now, he doesn’t know about me, so there’s absolutely no reason for him to come here. . . and if he does. . .”
“You’ve got gates,” I interrupt him, all the while replaying ‘right now, he doesn’t know about me.’
“I’ve got gates, yes, but that’s not what I. . .”
“Then get to the point, Gabe.”
“I want you safe.” He shifts slightly while looking around the room. His eyes finally settling on mine.
“It matters to me that you’re safe, that you’re somewhere he likely won’t find you.”
My stomach has twisted itself into knots so tight, it hurts.
“Why does it matter to you?” I ask.
“Aside from the fact that no man should ever do that to a woman, I don’t know why it matters but it does.”
He scratches his fingernails over his whiskers, the rasping sound filling the room.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d be happier if you took my room, and I’ll sleep in the guest room downstairs, that way, I’m closer to the front door if. . .”
“But why?” I cut him off. “I don’t get it. I’m not understanding what this. . .” I pause, letting out a frustrated sigh. I’ve had months of my husband telling me I’ve let myself go, that I’m fat, and I’m useless and I’ve allowed it in. Like an ear worm, Jay’s words have gotten into my head and buried themselves deep. I don’t want to come across as insecure but. . .
“Gabe, I’m forty-four. I have two grown-up sons, a psycho soon-to-be ex. No doubt a messy divorce to make the ex an official title is going to be a big part of my life in the coming months. I have boobs that are starting to droop, a belly that is not only absolutely, most definitely drooping, but it also wobbles and is covered in stretch marks. Then there’s this,” I air circle my face with my pointer finger. “Split lip, bruised cheek, black eye, dried blood in my hair, a glued together head, bruised ribs and hip, and a shoulder still sore from being dislocated. Add to that, all of the issues all of that combined has left me with, I’m a mess. Mentally, physically, all the ‘ally’s’ you can think of. Each and every one of them points to me being a big fat fucking mess.”
I have to look away from that penetrating gaze of his as I talk. His eyes display so much emotion, he has me forgetting how to use my words. It’s like he feels everything I say, every emotion I hope to convey, he gets them, then reflects them right back at me, and it’s too much, so I look away. I stare at his bare chest feeling exactly like the insecure woman I really don’t want to be, but know I’ve become.
“Did I not tell you Friday night how fucking hot I find wobbly bellies and stretch marks? Split lips, glued heads, and black eyes are definitely not my thing, but ya know what, they’re gonna fade. In a couple of weeks, the bruises will be gone, the scar on your head will fade. When you do notice it’s there, it’ll just be a reminder of your story, like your stretch marks and wobbly belly are reminders of the babies you carried. They’re all just a small part of what makes up your life story. They don’t define it, but they’ll always be a part of it, you can’t change that. What you can change is how you let all of that impact the way you feel about yourself, and the way you live the rest of your life.”
This man isn’t real. In real life, blokes like him don’t exist. I’m either dreaming or delusional right now. Concussed maybe?
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath, then slowly open them as I let it out. In all his dark-haired, blue-eyed glory, he’s still there. Right beside me, in his bed, as real as you like, looking at me that way that he does. It overwhelms me. With everything else I have going on, I don’t have the brain capacity to deal with the way he looks at me, or his words. They’re wise and honest, and I know they come from a good place, but I’m not sure that I’m ready to hear them, and I’m certainly not at a place where I believe them.
“I can’t. . . I don’t want to be living my story right now. I don’t even want to be living someone else’s, even if theirs is a fairy tale. I want a break. I need a break.”
I raise my palms to my head, pressing them against my temples as I try to articulate what I’m thinking and feeling.
“It’s too much. I just need to go somewhere and just be. I’m still struggling to process what’s happened to my marriage, my husband’s behaviour, and now there’s you, and it’s too much.”
I can’t think of any other way to explain how I feel so I pause, watching as he pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them, and laces his fingers together.
“There’s me?” he questions.
That’s all he took from that?
“Yeah, you, and all. . .” I trail off, waving my hand in his general direction.
“You’ve got all what you’ve got going on, so why exactly are you interested in me? I saw the girls you were talking to on Friday, young, blonde, you obviously have a type, and it’s definitely not me.”
“Don’t tell me what my type is. If I don’t even know that, then you definitely don’t, so don’t make assumptions.”
“Then what is it? What is it about me that after less than forty-eight hours you want to move me into your house?”
“You want blunt?”
“I want total honesty, that’s what I want.”
“Total honesty? I have no fucking idea. Physically, I don’t know if you’re my type because, like I said, I don’t know what my type is, but that does not mean you aren’t my type. I like my life drama-free, so emotionally, mentally, that would be a big fat no too. My head is telling me that everything about you right now is one giant red flag and will mean nothing but drama, but ya know what? I don’t fucking care. I went out for a drink with my brother’s Friday, and the last thing I was looking for or expecting was you, but there you were, and now, here we are.”
“This doesn’t make sense. We don’t make sense,” I say quietly, without making eye contact with him.
“Not even a little bit. Does that matter?”
My head feels like it’s underwater, my chest feels like someone’s sitting on it, and my stomach? My stomach chooses that moment to rumble really loudly.
I wince and turn my head to look at him through just one eye. He’s grinning, and I’m hit with so many thoughts and feelings, my head spins.
“Answer that later. Let me feed you while you think about it.” It’s an order, not a question, but before I can let him do that, I feel I need to clarify something.
