* * *
Tess could hardly feel her toes, and her soaked thighs and numb fingers began to sting as the heat of the lobby warmed them.
The reality of what had happened at the park and its likely aftereffects were too much to process. The guy had been more than kind. Funny too. But what would Nonna or her parents say if she got in a car with him? He hadn’t pushed when she’d chosen not to follow him upstairs to his loft. This made him seem safer somehow. Yet he had a fading black eye and was wearing a sling, and she had no idea how he’d gotten them. For all she knew, he could have a ferocious temper. It certainly didn’t seem like it, but she couldn’t know with any certainty.
In Europe, she’d backpacked and hitched rides from one small town to the next. She’d made friends with fellow travelers, often joining up with backpackers she’d just met and traveling with them for a town or two before parting ways. It was crazy, but all of that had felt so much safer than following a guy into the lobby of his building in her home city.
Maybe it was an omen. Maybe she should take off and head back to Pooches and Purses. The owner would be gone, but surely the workers would let her use a phone and hang there until whoever she decided to call came and got her.
The idea of calling her family made her stomach begin a new set of somersaults. Comments they hadn’t even made yet —and maybe never would—circled through her mind.
What was wrong with her that she didn’t think they’d be supportive or sympathetic? And why did her thoughts have to circle so quickly to what they’d say or think? Why did she have to assume it would be another marked failure in their eyes?
She’d lost so much. The treats, dog food, lotions, and oils were replaceable. The stories, not so much. She could contact some of her old clients and ask them for a second round of quotes and pictures. There was the cost of replacing her laptop. The cell phone in her backpack had been the one she’d left in a drawer when she’d gone to Europe. It was outdated by three models at least and had had more quirks than its fair share. She’d been more than overdue for a new one. She’d get the money for all of that somehow. It was the files on her computer and the photos and cell numbers that couldn’t be replaced.
Photos flashed through her mind of the hole-in-the-wall bookstores and antique markets and mom-and-pop bakeries, and of the castles and villages she’d visited. So did the phone numbers of the friends she met along the way. Some of the best moments of her life, so irretrievably gone.
In the quiet but cozy room, Tess doubled over, burying her head between her knees, and finally gave release to her tears.
Chapter 4
“So, pick your passion for a cold, rainy afternoon. Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate?” Mason asked as he drove his red Dodge Ram pickup truck up the ramp and out of the basement garage.
It was a good thing he couldn’t drive with his left hand or he’d have to work hard at not letting his right one close over Tess’s knee in reassurance. She looked close to irresistible on the other side of the console in the big leather bucket seat, wearing the several-sizes-too-large hoodie he’d loaned her.
“Um, hot chocolate, I guess, though there are compelling arguments for all three.”
“Unless you need a jolt of caffeine, I can promise you won’t be disappointed with their hot chocolate. It’s a coffee shop just up the road. I’ll run in. You can wait here out of the rain. I know you must be in a hurry to look for your stuff. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks. You don’t have to, but if you’re going for you as well, a hot chocolate would be nice.”
Mason left his truck idling because he could see she was still shivering and he didn’t want to kill the heat. He dropped a few coins in the meter and jogged inside. By the time he came back with a giant hot chocolate for her and a coffee for him, she looked a lot further from tears than she had when he’d returned to the lobby. He’d sensed she’d only pulled herself together at the ding of the elevator.
He opened his door and placed the drinks in the console cup holders before gripping the steering wheel to climb into the high seat, something he’d perfected since his left arm and shoulder had been immobilized. He couldn’t say for sure how he used to get into his cab. It had been second nature.
“Is it hard driving one-handed?” she asked.
“So far, so good. It’s my collarbone and shoulder, not my arm. I’m counting the days until I get this sling off.”
He was glad when she didn’t ask how he’d done it. He worried telling her he’d been in a car wreck might cause her to make a connection he was hoping she wouldn’t make. Not today. Today, he wanted to be generic Mason from a generic farming family in Iowa. He didn’t want to be the single, pro baseball player just about every social media gossip column had tagged in one sensationalized story or another that summer. He didn’t want to be a player on the field or off. He just wanted to be a guy helping a girl recover her stuff.
She lifted her paper cup in both hands and took a cautious sip. “You weren’t kidding. This is the real stuff.
