Always Only You by Chloe Liese (z-lib.org).epub

I glance away furiously as heat floods my cheeks. After fumbling with
shoving my phone in my bag, I ease up from my seat, stifling a moan of
discomfort. My joints practically creak as I straighten, a process that takes longer
than it should. When I hike my bag onto my shoulder and stand fully, I notice
Ren’s positioned himself slightly behind our row of seats, his arms braced on
each side, sealing off the row until I’m clear.
Half the guys stand behind him, eyes on their phones, their small carry-on
bags on their shoulders. They’re waiting.
“Sorry!” I call. “Granny Frankie’s slow moving.”
A bunch of variations of “You’re good, Frankie” travel the bus. Taking my
time down those stupid steep steps off the bus, I make it out into the balmy
California air waiting for us and draw in a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, weight leaves my shoulder. I gape as I watch Ren fluidly hoist my
bag up his arm, as he hauls not only his equipment—yes, the man insists on
carrying his own equipment and not letting the lowly assistants schlep his stuff
—but also both of our suitcases, all with the use of one good arm.
“I’m feeling slightly useless,” I yell. “And you’re supposed to be careful of
your shoulder.”
Ren grins back at me. “My shoulder’s fine. Besides, I’m antsy. I had to sit on
my butt and watch a game. Just getting a little functional fitness in.”
Ignoring the option to drop off some of his stuff in the facility, Ren pulls out
his keys, and the van’s trunk hatch opens with a chirp. After neatly loading our
luggage, Ren steps to my side to open the door for me, waiting as I slide into the
seat and buckle up. My laptop bag is set neatly at my feet before he closes my
door and jogs over to his side.
Our practice facility is in El Segundo, a ten-minute drive west of my rented
bungalow in Hawthorne, which is the opposite direction from Ren’s house in
Manhattan Beach. I feel bad about making him go out of his way to take me
home, but having a safe ride back is worth taking this bite of humble pie.
Before he pulls out, Ren turns on the radio and picks a station that’s quiet but
strummy. Guitars, violins, maybe even a ukulele. The man’s voice is gentle and
soft. It’s relaxing. I stifle a sigh as I settle into the soft leather of my seat and
crack open my window, hoping it’ll wake me up a bit from this dreamy stupor
his car’s putting me in.
“You can change the music, if you want.” Ren watches the road carefully,
then crosses traffic.
“I like it. Thanks, though.”
He nods and focuses on the road. Ren looks absurdly right driving a minivan.
I can just picture him years down the road, behind the wheel, a few more lines at