Page 13

Twelve

My knees hurt. My knees and, oh geez, my butt… I’m dizzy. I keep my eyes closed. The world just flew by. And it might have taken my clothes with it.

“Are you okay, miss?” says a deep voice, one that I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard before.

I tell my eyelids they must open. We are being greeted… It doesn’t matter that my legs and behind are injured, that my pants have possibly been torn to shreds or maybe even ripped from my body.

“Does your head hurt?” that voice says again.

I blink open to a blue sky, white puffy clouds, and a blond beard. I squint in the sun. “Hi,” I say, my laptop still snug against my chest.

“Almost getting hit by a car is one way to get attention,” he says through a wide smile. He hovers over top of me, the hard ground beneath me.

I wrinkle my nose as more bodies congregate. There’s a crowd forming. I am very much gathering attention. My bearded rescuer does not seem to notice, though. And?—

“My laptop. It’s paid off, so it can’t be broken,” I tell him.

His eyes drop to the computer in my arms. “Hmm, it looks okay.” He peers around us for one second, smiling as he looks outward toward the circle of people around us. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“My bag broke. My books and computer fell. I—” I bend my legs and attempt to sit up, but pain shoots through my limbs and backside.

The stranger, stretching his gaze over my entire body, hisses.

I’m not sure what he’s seeing, but it can’t be pretty.

Let’s hope it involves a fully dressed Fran and not one whose clothes have been torn from her body.

“You scraped your left knee pretty good when I snatched you out of the way of that truck. How’s your head? ”

Truck? I do not remember a truck.

An ache runs over my body—but not in my head. No, my head is fine. “Not my head,” I grunt as I attempt to move again. “Knee. Butt,” I hiss. “Ouch.”

“I sort of dragged you, left side. Then rolled and planted you on your backside. It all happened so quickly.” He smirks. “But as long as your head is okay. Can I help you up?”

“Sir,” I say, realizing even as I speak the awful words that I am possibly having yet another romcom moment this week. I mean, Hello, Dr. Steve Eddie from The Wedding Planner . “Do I still have my pants on?”

“Yes,” he says with a chuckle. “But the hole in your left knee might be new.”

“Did you see him save her?” a voice says—it’s one of many from the crowd formed around us.

I should really be focused on the beard in front of me, but geez, my butt hurts. My tailbone has officially been beaten .

“Come on,” he says, taking my laptop and books then holding out a hand to me. Again, shouldn’t I be encompassed with the feel of this man? So weird that the most pressing thing on my mind is my sore buttocks.

Rosalie would say it isn’t weird. I did just get shoved out of the way of a truck.

I set my hand in his and he pulls me upright, still kindly holding my things, though my ripped bag is nowhere to be seen.

“I’m Paul,” he says. He smiles once more, but he’s looking at the people around us, not at me.

A few people have their phones out and directed toward us. I wait for Paul to tell them, “There’s nothing to see here,” or “Move along,” but he doesn’t do either. Instead, he just keeps smiling for the camera. “Paul Fender,” he tells them with a nod.

“I’m Fran,” I say to Paul—did he ask for my name? I can’t remember, but my voice brings Paul’s gaze back around to me.

“What happened?” says a woman whose phone is still directed at us. Whew, my jeans are still on my body, but I’m not exactly feeling fresh.

“Could you maybe not?” I say, nodding to her phone.

“Fran here had a pretty detrimental accident,” Paul says. And that’s when I spot the truck, skid marks blackening the asphalt behind it, stopped at an odd angle in the middle of the street.

Wow. That almost accident seemed way less awful in The Wedding Planner .

“She’s okay,” Paul says—he is a smiley one. “I got to her in time. ”

The word “hero” is simpering in and out of my ears from the people around us.

“Do you need to see a doctor?” Paul asks.

“Um.” I shake my head that does not hurt. “I think I’m okay. Just sore and scraped.”

“Right. Your bottom.”

My cheeks warm—that’s right, I said that out loud. “Yes, well, it was a rough tumble.”

“Sorry about that. I had no other choice.”

Our friendly neighborhood phone recorder is still watching with a slew of others, her cell relentlessly out. If Rosalie were here, she would slap that woman’s phone right out of her hand.

“I need to get to class. I have a meeting with my professor.”

“Let me walk you,” Paul says. “I can carry your things.”

“Sure. Okay.” I walk past our friendly, self-appointed news reporter and head toward the classroom building.

“Are you sure you don’t want to at least clean up your knees?” Paul says.

I smile, but it’s forced. I try to remind myself of this moment—this Wedding Planner romcom moment. But Jennifer Lopez was lucky; she woke up in a hospital after a short rest. I’m heading in to see Professor Ellington. “I could use some Advil. Do you happen to have any?”

“I don’t. But the union building is just up ahead. I’ll grab you some.”

Wow. Paul really does fit that hero bill. Will there be dancing in the park later too? Except that, strange enough, I’m not feeling much from Paul’s full head of hair and ruggish beard. It’s probably the ache in my butt. It’s all I can feel .

Still, I can’t deny this living, breathing moment thrust upon me. The classroom building is just before the union. Lucky me. “Do you mind if I wait here?” I motion to a bench near the building, already sitting—though this seat could really use some cushioning.

Paul sets my things next to me and I lift my laptop, thankful to see some light.

“Not at all. Stay here,” helpful Paul says. “I’ll be right back.”

And he is. He is back in less than six minutes. Which is good, because my meeting starts in two. He’s brought me a spring water and a one hundred tablet bottle of Advil. The real stuff—not generic. Thanks, Paul.

See—nice. Sure, my butt feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, and my knee is stinging, and I was almost crushed like a bug ten minutes ago. But what am I waiting for? He’s nice. He’s smiley. And he did just save my life.

I lick my lips and muster up some courage. Ellington is waiting. I don’t have time for any more conversation. “Would you like to go to a Red Tails soccer game with me tomorrow night? As a thank-you.”

Paul tilts his head, then holds out a business card that reads Silver State Rides: Paul Fender, Salesman . “Text me. I’d like that.”