Page 20 of Saving Ren

“I’m sorry. You okay? Shit, I didn’t mean. . .”

“Yeah. Nah. I’m good. Just having a moment.” She gives another small but obviously nervous or embarrassed laugh while still looking around the bar.

“Can I get you another drink?”

Her eyes finally meet mine, and it takes everything in me not to pull her closer and ask what or who the fuck has her so upset.

“Could I just grab a water please?”

“Water, you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m. . . no, I’m not sure of anything right now.” She laughs again, this time it sounds a little more genuine. “I’ll have a water, but could you also get me a vodka, lime, soda? You know what, I’ll get these, you got the last round.”

I watch her as she rambles. I want to argue, but not wanting to upset her any further, I nod.

“Sure, yeah. If that’s what you want.”

She pulls cash from the wallet attached by a strap to her wrist and hands it to me.

“Would you mind getting them?”

“Yeah, no worries.”

I’m not a Neanderthal, but taking her money doesn’t sit right with me, but I order our drinks and take a moment to get my shit together, at the same time, hopefully giving her time to compose herself.

I pass her the glass of ice water first, take a sip of my bourbon, before turning with her vodka in my hand. She drinks the water down in one go and places the glass back on the bar.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Don’t be. Shall we just start again? That introduction was really fucking bad,” I admit with a smile.

“It was the absolute worst,” she agrees with a grin. “Hey, Gabe, I’m Lauren.”

“Lauren, hey. Good to meet you. So, do you come here often?”

“Really? I give you a second chance, and that’s all you’ve got for me? Wow,” she says with a shake of her head.

Her accent is killing me. It makes everything she says sound like she’s cracking a joke at my expense, which I think she actually might be. She’s wearing the biggest smile as she talks before reining it in with another shake of her head.

“That was just, wow, I’ve literally got no words, and that’s saying something. Where’d you pull that one from, the fifties?” Her head turns from side to side as she appears to be looking around the room. I silently watch her, mesmerised, transfixed. I swear, the little red-headed witch has me under some type of spell.

“What are you doing?” I finally ask.

“Sorry,” she shakes her head as she speaks. “I was looking for a jukebox, the Fonz and the Cunningham’s,” she deadpans.

“Wow,” I mimic what’s apparently her favourite word. “Don’t hold back. I mean, you’re cutting me deep here. I’m emotionally wounded.” I press a palm to my chest, feigning injury. “Fair play though, that was poor. Really poor. I’m shit at this,” I admit while giving my head a shake.

“Oh, I doubt that,” she says sarcastically.

“You doubt that I’m shit at small talk?”

She shrugs, sips on her drink, and looks around the bar before landing her pretty eyes back on me, shining now with mischief, not tears.

Gesturing with a nod over my shoulder, she sucks in both her lips as a voice whispers into my ear.

“Hey, stranger, where you been hiding.”

“I rest my case,” Lauren says, accompanied by a quick quirk of her brows.