I shake my head as the reality of what is happening hits me.

  Where am I going to go?

  Where can I possibly stay? I can’t afford a hotel. I don’t have friends in town yet. I’ve only been in Star Falls a couple of weeks.

  All I have is my aunt’s apartment and her landline. Maybe one of the ladies would let me crash on her couch, but God, I can’t impose.

  And even if I could for one night, what then?

  Staying here alone while some psychopath has my phone? He didn’t get what he wanted from my café. Maybe he’ll come back.

  The heat of the truck starts to feel stifling, and I break out in a sweat.

  “I… I…” I don’t know what to do. I can’t move. Can’t think fast enough.

  “Chloe.” Franco’s voice is raspy, as if he’s as worn out as I am. I realize I haven’t thanked him. “Chloe.” He’s saying it again, but this time, he’s closer. He’s staring at me with those summer-sky eyes, and a weary half smile claims his beautiful mouth. “I’m not going to leave you,” he promises. “I’m going to go up with you. You’re going to pack a bag, and I’m going to bring you someplace safe. Okay?”

  I stare at Franco’s outstretched hand. If he’d offered his hand to me yesterday, I would have leaped at the chance to touch him.

  Today, holding his hand means I have to move. Have to go inside. Face the reality and fears all alone, even if he walks me as far as the door.

  I can’t do it.

  “I have to go home,” I say, quietly wringing my hands.

  I can’t do any of this.

  “You are home,” Franco says, looking puzzled. He rests a hand on my thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Chloe.” His voice is a lifeline. Warm, steady, and solid.

  Gone is the broody grump who wouldn’t look at me over dinner or who glared at me for too long.

  This Franco is nothing if not sincere.

  “I’m right here. Come on. Let’s go inside. I won’t let anything hurt you. You got that? I’m right here. And I wish I’d fucking been there at the store five minutes earlier.” He squeezes his lips together and flares his nostrils. But then he releases my thigh and clicks open my seat belt. “Take my hand. Let’s get a bag packed and get the fuck out of here.”

  He eases my seat belt away from my body, and now there is nothing left to do but take his hand and move one leg at a time out of the truck.

  The fall air is crisp, and his breath curls in front of his face in soft puffs of steam. My hand shakes as I reach for his. My legs feel weak but also like they are surging with fear, like at any moment, I could break into a run and take myself far, far away from here.

  The intensity of the experience is too much. I hit the pavement, and my knees buckle. “Whoa.” I reach for the truck door, but Franco is there instead.

  His body is warm and firm, and he’s got a hand on my waist, but somehow my thighs are plastered against his. I follow my body’s momentum and lean all the way into him.

  “Whoa,” he echoes what I just said, but his word is heavy with something else. His breath fans my ear, and for a moment, I get lost in the reassuring comfort of him. He’s like a wall of muscle blocking the rest of the world from getting to me.

  It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I lean my forehead against his chest and close my eyes. Maybe I’m chickenshit, hiding like this behind a man I hardly know. But before I can think better of what I’m doing, I lift up on my toes and wrap my arms around his neck.

  “Thank you,” I breathe against his neck. The long layers of his hair tickle my face, and I’m a little too short to reach comfortably, but he is already wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. I hug him hard and let the tears burn the backs of my eyelids. “What would have happened if you hadn’t come when you did?”

  I mean, I know the criminal was already outside when Franco arrived, but the guy took my phone. The store has a landline, but I was so weak and terrified.

  Would I have been able to call for help? What if I’d passed out alone?

  My entire body trembles, and he holds me even closer. The unbelievable heat of him seeps through my clothes, and, if anything, I hold on even tighter.

  He doesn’t say anything and doesn’t relax his hold on me. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  I breathe in the heady scent of his hair, the light fragrance of hair oil, soap, smoke, and I know I have to let go. I’m embarrassing myself further. But my body knows what it wants, and this biker-mechanic-bodyguard is exactly the shield I need right now. I will rally.

  I will get past this. But right now? I’m in no state to pretend to be stronger than I am.

  “I don’t really want to let go,” I admit, my words sounding fuzzy against his collar.

  I can feel his hands through my sweater, firm but gentle on my waist. “How about we try this?” he says. “Let’s walk inside. Let’s get you packed. And then, if you need more of this, you just come on back for more.”

  I nod and loosen my hands and steady my feet beneath me. I wipe my hands on the legs of my pants and shake clear the cobwebs.

  One thing at a time.

  “Inside. Pack a bag,” I repeat, more to myself than to him, feeling suddenly vulnerable again. There is a clear path between me and the exterior stairs that lead to my apartment. No massive man blocking the way. “Where do you plan to take me? I don’t want to impose on anyone, and—”

  “My place,” he says. “You can stay with me tonight.”

  Something electric dances in my belly when he says that. In the state I’m in, I can’t tell whether it’s excitement, relief, or fear that I’m feeling. “Your place?” I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that. I can just—”

  “Do you want to go stay with my mother?” he asks, no sign of impatience in his voice. Unless I’m mistaken, he sounds tired. “Because if you want to put up with Lucia freaking out and fawning over you, I’ll take you straight to my mom’s.”

  The idea doesn’t sound half bad, but if the alternative is staying with Franco…

  “I don’t know,” I say, sincerely unsure what I want. “Let’s just go inside.”

  I square my shoulders and head for the stairs, and he calls for me to wait up.

  I’ve only taken a couple of steps, and I freeze in place. He holds out his hand. I give him my keys without a word, and then he takes the lead, heading toward the stairs where he’d watched me walk to my unit last night.

  “Which one is yours?” he asks when we get to the top.

  The exterior lights are all working, so my number is clearly illuminated. The welcome mat is still Aunt Ann’s, a faded sunflower pattern with a happy bee dancing above the petals. I point ahead and tell him the unit, and he nods, then grimly storms toward my door as if expecting to see the intruder waiting there for me.

  “Franco,” I whisper. There’s a lot I don’t know about technology, and so I know my question is probably foolish. But I can’t help my reactions. It’s as if everything inside me is hyperalert, ready to descend into full fight-or-flight at the least sign. “He has my phone. Is it possible for him to find out where I live?”

  Franco’s plush lips flatten into a hard line, and a dark shadow passes over his bright eyes. “We’re not taking any chances.” He pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket and unlocks the device. “The passcode is 0131. For my mother’s birthday, January 31.” He repeats it, so I’m sure I remember it. “I’m going to go in first. If there’s any sign of trouble, you call the cops. All right?”

  I nod and nervously hold his phone in a trembling hand. I keep the phone at the ready and watch while Franco sifts through the keys on my ring.

  “This one?” he asks.

  I nod. “The doorknob takes the same key,” I whisper, terrified that the criminal is close by.

  It’s ridiculous, I know. But I’ve never been the victim of a crime before. And this was such a close call. He’d brought a knife. What might have made him want to use it? And would he have used it on…me? My visions blurs and I feel dizzy again, but I fight through it. I have to be ready to dial. I have to focus and just trust that I’m safe now. I’m not alone. Franco is here, and any minute now…

  “It’s all clear, babe. Come on.” Franco’s face softens, and my tummy flips at the casual endearment. He’s inside my apartment now, turning on the hall light.

  I follow him in and hand him back his phone. “Thank you,” I say. “So, so much.”

  He closes the door behind me and turns the lock, pocketing his phone and breathing a loud sigh. “Look okay in here to you? Nothing out of place?”

  I scan the mildly familiar apartment. Aunt Ann’s furniture is all still here. But as my eyes adjust to each light Franco turns on, I feel more and more at ease that nothing has been disturbed. Nothing is out of place.

  “It looks okay,” I say quietly. My aunt’s old refrigerator hums loudly, and for a moment, I want to lie down on the couch and just collect my thoughts. Calm my racing heart and weary nerves.

  But Franco has other things on his mind. “Have you eaten?” he asks. “Dinner?”

  I scoff and shake my head. “I’ll probably never eat again,” I say. “Unless some miracle settles my nerves, I’ll probably just throw everything right back up.”

  “My father’s leftovers beg to differ.” His voice is light, and he nods toward the open bedroom door. “You have a suitcase?”

  I search his face, confusion and self-doubt at war in my chest. “Are you sure you want to take me home with you? I mean, you hardly know me, and you’ve done so much for me already. I don’t—”

  He stops the words by striding across the living room and lifting my chin with two fingers. His touch is gentle, but the friction of his skin against mine brings every nerve ending to attention.

  I raise my eyes to meet his.

  “You don’t want to go home with me?” he asks.

  The question lingers between us, something more than the words he actually asked underlying his meaning.

  I swallow and blink, not sure what to do.

  If I speak, I’ll disturb his touch. If I move, I’ll break our safe, gentle connection. My body is insistent in its silence, stillness.

  “I do,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “But…”

  “No buts. It’s settled.” Franco doesn’t release my face right away, but he smooths the hair back from my face. “Pack what you need for a couple days. I’ll be right here.”

  Then he’s gone, his fingers leave my chin and hair, and I’m frozen in place.

  He walks to the kitchen and scans the fridge. There are still aged magnets and notes my aunt scribbled when she was alive on the front. I haven’t had the heart to move any of her things. I came from Pennsylvania with a carload of clothes, some books, and personal things, but nothing large like furniture.

  I’m living a hand-me-down life if there ever was one. And that thought makes the old inferiority swirl up like a tsunami.

  I walk to the bathroom and close the door behind me. I drop onto the toilet and let a few quiet tears fall.

  Pull up your big-girl panties, I tell myself.

  He’s a friend. My aunt’s friend’s son. He’s not judging whether or not he wants to date me. He’s helping a woman who’s gone through a terrifying experience. I’m just lucky it was him who showed up at the café or I might have to spend tonight completely alone.

  I dry my tears and twist my hair into a loose bun, then I wash my face with cold water.

  “Franco?”

  He’s standing in the kitchen but starts at the sound of my voice. “What? Are you okay?” he blurts, then comes toward me like he’s genuinely concerned some new danger sprung up in my room.

  I’m starting to feel human again, more like myself. I give him a smile. “I just wanted to know if I should pack a pillow and blanket?”

  He looks at me with an unreadable expression. His lips are slightly parted, and he seems to notice my hair is up as he trails his eyes from my lips to my hair and back to my face. “No,” he finally says. “It’s all good. Leave all that, unless you need special things. Ma made sure I have extra of everything.”

  I shake my head and sling my bags over one shoulder. “I’m getting hungry now, though. I think the shock is wearing off and my survival instincts are kicking in.”

  He nods. “Good thing I brought Dad’s leftovers. We’ll eat at my place. You want a drink?”

  I nod.

  “Just wine, or the harder stuff?” he asks. “I think tonight calls for a gin and tonic.”

  “I usually stick to one beer or one glass of wine, but I’m up for anything.”

  I click off the lights and am slightly reassured by how homey the place looks now that I’m calming down. Everything is where it should be. This is where my aunt lived. And this is where I’ll make a life too. Tonight is just a scary bump in the new path I’m forging. I’ll get through it.

  And I’ll be okay.

  At least, that’s what I hope.

  7

  Franco

  When I pull up to my place, I leave the truck in the driveway but pop the garage door with the opener.

  Chloe spent the entire ride looking at her hands and fidgeting in the seat, to the point where she was making me anxious. But something about seeing the lights go on in my garage, along with the sight of my bike, workbench, and weights restores a little sense of normalcy.

  I switch off the truck and turn to her. “I’ll carry everything. Let’s just get you inside.”

  She mumbles something under her breath and nods, then shoves open the passenger door.

  Once we’re inside, I lock the garage and set her bags down at the base of the stairs. She has slid out of her boots and is shifting from foot to foot, looking uncertain.

  I check the time, and it’s nearly nine. I stifle a yawn at the same time my stomach gurgles. “I’m going to heat these leftovers,” I tell her. “I’ve got to cook some pasta, so it might be twenty minutes. That cool?”

  She nods. “Can I help?”

  “Let’s get your things settled, and we’ll cook.” I grab her bags and bring them upstairs. “I’ve got shit everywhere,” I say, “but you can leave your stuff up here.” I drop her luggage and show her the bathroom. “Towels are here. Feel free to shower or take a bath if you want. Just make yourself at home.”

  She is looking down at her socks, when I realize she might not feel ready to be alone yet. She might want to make a call to someone, but she doesn’t have her phone.

  “Hey,” I say gently, taking a step closer. “Is there someone you want to call? I don’t know what else to do here, but you’re safe. You can just relax now.”

  The saddest expression passes over her face before she carefully composes herself.

  In that moment, my heart cracks for her.

  She looks so young then, younger than a woman who owns her own business and who moved halfway across the country alone should.

  “How old are you?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

  She lifts a brow at me, but she answers. “Twenty-nine,” she says. “Why? How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-eight,” I tell her. “And it’s nothing. I just… I’m going to make some food.”

  I turn and clomp downstairs. There’s no point in telling her she looks so young I want to physically stop the world from throwing scary shit at her. I can’t. I can’t protect her, and I don’t understand this almost primal instinct in me to do so.

  I have a little sister. I’ve watched Grace go through hard shit, and yeah, I’ve always been there to back her play. But this feels so very different. So much more complicated. I don’t pity Chloe or feel a duty toward her.

  I slam my frustration against the kitchen cabinets and fill a pot of water to boil, heavily salting it. I warm the sauce in a pan, adding a little olive oil and water to thin it without changing the flavor too much.

  Just after I dump the box of pasta into the stockpot, Chloe pads downstairs. Her hair is damp and is hanging in smooth, combed locks over her shoulders. Little droplets of water drip from the ends and land on a towel she has wrapped over her shoulders like a shawl.

  For the many layers of clothes she wears out there in the world, her sleepwear is surprisingly minimalist. She’s wearing a pair of soft sleep shorts, emphasis on short, and a loose V-neck T-shirt. Her feet are bare, and I yank my gaze away from her naked legs to pour myself something strong.

  “What’re you drinking?” I call from the freezer. I drop a generous serving of ice into a glass and set it on the counter. “I’ve got beer. I can open some wine…”

  “Just whatever you’re having is fine,” she says. She sits at my kitchen table and picks at her nails. “Can I help?”

  I shake my head and fill a second glass with ice. The pasta’s got another three or four minutes to cook, so I grab a lime from the fridge and make us each a strong gin and tonic. I hand her a drink, strain the pasta, and then serve up a plate for each of us.

  We eat in silence, and it’s almost painfully awkward. I can smell the fresh berry scent emanating from her wet hair, and her face is scrubbed clean but has a lot of the color back in it.

  “What did you do back in… Where did you move from? I’m sure my ma told me, but I don’t remember.”

  She nods. “Pennsylvania.” She takes a long sip of her drink, and her shoulders relax a little more as she chuckles. “I worked in a bookstore,” she says. “But the one back home was a major retail chain. You know the kind—we had an in-store café that was owned by another big company. Having books and a café and running it all myself is quite the change.”

  “Must be.” I’ve eaten every morsel on my plate, and now I’m feeling it. I’m full and tired. I lean back in my chair and sip my drink. “Are books a thing in your family? Like, did you always know you wanted to own your own bookshop one day?”

  I’m slowing down her meal by talking to her, but the silence is too painful. I feel like the less we talk, the more we both get lost in the memories of what happened tonight.