Page 35 of One Small Spark (Love in Sunshine #4)

TWENTY-FIVE

SHEPHERD

This is worse than I expected. Neglect is one thing, but mistreatment is something else entirely.

Several cardboard boxes are stacked on Wren’s bike. Not just tilting precariously between the handlebars and the wall, but resting on the seat, too. Her bicycle was hidden away among other forgotten items and became one with the garden variety garage junk.

Not to judge. The boxes could be filled with priceless artifacts. But the scrawl on the side of one that says August’s baby toys makes me doubt it.

“I should have pulled it out of here before you showed up.” Wren grabs the uppermost box off the stack to start a new pile next to the bike.

The hem of her shirt lifts as she stretches, revealing a stripe of pale skin I want to explore.

Her long-sleeve T-shirt today has a raccoon on it.

This one says, Raise hell and eat trash.

I help her move the boxes out of the way. “This is a fascinating window into your world.”

The garage at her house is filled with the usual: boxes, garden tools, bins of Christmas lights. Some of it’s neat and tidy, but other sections are cluttered. Like the parts they use the most get their attention, and the rest fades into obscurity. Seems pretty normal.

“It’s not my world.” She leans over to tug the box on the handlebars out of position. “Tess is the sentimental one. This is all August’s baby crap.”

She’s trying to pretend she doesn’t care, but it’s impossible for her to say the word “August” without revealing her heart. Her soft spot for him is wider than an ocean. It’s endearing and simultaneously hits something unpleasant inside me that wants her to have a soft spot for me, too.

Because I’m apparently jealous of children now.

“You still have your old bike,” I point out. Surely, some of the other boxes in here belong to her, but I’m not low enough to go on a hunt for them. Yet.

“That’s because it’s too crummy to donate.” She steps back, hands on her hips, to stare at the fully revealed bicycle. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s not the best.”

It’s a black Electra seven-speed. Grease and a few spots of rust mar the frame.

The black fenders have been scraped up. The flat tires are brittle and the tubes inside are probably shot.

The rubber handlebar grips are cracked and coming off, and the saddle is misshapen from being used as a storage shelf.

I can’t wait to get started.

“If we should just chuck it in the garbage can, you can tell me that. It won’t hurt my feelings. In fact, I might prefer it. Let’s do that now.” She grabs the seat as if she’s going to roll it off the nearest cliff.

I put one hand over hers to stop her. “It’s not garbage, Wren. I can do this.”

More to the point, I want to. Not just because of my impulse to restore it, but because it’s a small thing I can do for her. Her independence calls to me, but I want to take care of her, too.

She gazes up at me, dust motes dancing in the air between us. “It’s going to be so much work.”

“I like a challenge.” More than she realizes.

“And it’s all for free, apparently.” Her tiny frown indicates how she feels about that.

“I’m a generous man.” Currently trying not to think about all the things I’d like to give her.

She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face. “You’re kind of insufferable sometimes.”

“Same to you, kitten.”

Her eyes spark. “I told you that’s a terrible nickname.”

“I know. But I’m saving ‘goddess’ for the right time.”

“Oh my gosh.” She turns away to free the bike’s handlebars from the crowd of boxes around it, failing to hide her smile.

I help her get the bike out of the graveyard of long forgotten things and heft the middle of the frame onto my hip. Crossing the garage, I take it to where I backed my truck into the driveway and lay it in the cargo bed. When I turn, she’s at my side, hands in her back jeans pockets.

She shivers, but I don’t have the satisfaction of being the cause of it. The brisk fall air is already too much to be out in for long this evening.

“Do you want to come in for a minute?” she asks. “Mom and Daniel aren’t here right now. Not that that’s incentive or something. That would be so wildly inappropriate. ‘Nobody’s home, come over.’ I’m just saying—you know what? Never mind.”

“I’d love to come in.” I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to see the home where she grew up even if her entire family was inside.

“Great.” She spins, peeking at me over her shoulder as she crooks a finger. “ Follow me.”

Anywhere.

She leads me through a side door into the kitchen.

It’s been lightly remodeled, but the bones of the old Craftsman house are still intact, from the L-shaped galley kitchen to the curved archways that lead from room to room.

The living room has two big sofas facing each other, framing the fireplace.

Light floods in from the dual front windows.

A collection of children’s books sits next to the coffee table.

It’s comfortable, if surprisingly beige.

She tosses a hand toward the room. “Pretty basic, I guess. Do you want to see my room?”

She scrunches her nose as if she regrets the question. I sure don’t.

“I can’t wait to see the dartboard with my face on it.”

“It’s actually a punching bag with a flannel shirt over it.”

She heads up the stairs, and I trail behind, struggling to keep my eyes anywhere but on the glorious view in front of me.

At the top of the landing, family photos and little kid art line the walls. She moves to a door at the far end before I can get a good look at any of the pictures. Walking in, she spreads her hands wide. “Ta da.”

Now this is Wren’s room. Bold fuchsia and yellow accent the quilt on the bed topped with half a dozen throw pillows.

Frames in a variety of colors decorate one wall.

A vision board hangs over the desk, crammed with photographs, fabric, and mementos.

The desk itself is covered in strange yarn creations.

“Are these your weirdos?” I move closer to inspect the small stuffed animals. There’s at least ten oddly shaped creatures here, each bearing an eclectic variety of appendages, eyes, and accessories.

She joins me in admiring the colorful assortment. “Those are my guys.”

I pick one up. It’s dark green, with spikes down its back like a dinosaur, but big webbed feet like a duck. The head has seven eyes that goggle up at me. It’s also got a curving red topknot like a quail that bobbles when I move.

“You can see they’re absolute nonsense.” She flicks a finger over the topknot. “But that’s the whole point. They’re impossible to mess up.”

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s cute.”

“Then that one’s yours.” Her smile falls. “I mean, if you want it. Not that you would. It’s a scientific abnormality with uneven stitches and?—”

I hug it to my chest as she tries to grab it from me. “I want it.”

She relaxes again, her mouth tipping back up. “Okay.”

“So this is your refuge.” I can’t decide what I want to look at most. Her collage of photographs. The vision board. Her low bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. The collection of enamel pins stuck in a long lanyard.

One says, Ask me about my existential crisis .

She sits down on the edge of the bed. “It’s my woman cave.” She scrunches her nose. “No. That’s awful. It’s my lair. That sounds way more mysterious and evil.”

“It’s a good lair. But I hate to think of you shrinking yourself down in here to make other people more comfortable.”

She should shine as bright as she can. Let someone else cower if they can’t handle it.

“It’s not like that. Mom and Daniel aren’t dimming my sparkle or anything. This is a self-imposed exile.”

“I’m not understanding.”

She flops onto her back. Her shirt rides up again, revealing her belly button. I want to trace a fingertip over that cute divot in the worst way.

“I’ve never had to watch my mom make out with someone before.” She stares at the pale blue ceiling like she’s trying to block the scene from her mind.

“Aww, Krause. Are you telling me PDA makes you squeamish?”

“Hers does. She’s basically been a nun for the last twenty years, and boy, is she making up for lost time. I can’t walk into a room now without clearing my throat or banging around so they know I’m on my way. I have seen things, Shepherd. I’m traumatized.”

Traumatized. Because her mom’s been kissing her new boyfriend.

She huffs a breath, propping herself up on her elbows so she can glare at me properly. “Stop laughing.”

“The way you talked, I thought they were icing you out or trying to get you to move away. Not just being affectionate in front of you.”

“It’s not just affection. There are sounds involved.”

This doesn’t stop my laughter.

“You’d be the same if it was your parents,” she says.

“It is my parents. They still make out every time they get the smallest scrap of privacy. My mom can’t resist smacking my dad’s butt when he walks in front of her.”

They try to tone it down in front of guests, but now and then, Charlie sends me a text letting me know they’ve been caught: PCRH. For Parents Caught Red-Handed.

Not my favorite texts.

Now Wren’s the one laughing. “Butt-smacking, huh? Your dad must still have it.”

“Let’s not talk about my dad’s butt right now. The point is, I hated their constant kissing and cuddling when I was younger. But as an adult, that’s the only kind of relationship I want. A best friend I can’t keep my hands off of.”

Her eyes light like she’s quickly coming around to the idea, too. It would be so easy to prowl my way over to her and pin her body down with mine. Show her just how difficult it is to keep my hands to myself when I’m with her. Her lips part as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

A door slams somewhere in the house, and we both startle.

“Holy Cheez-its.” She launches off the bed and heads for the door.

“Wren?” her mom calls through the house. “What is Shepherd Callahan’s truck doing in the driveway? You didn’t steal it, did you?”