Waving me in front of him, I walked to the passenger door, where he helped me up and in before storing my carry-on bag in the backseat. I set my purse on my lap and buckled in.
“Here we go. Let me turn on the AC,” he said as he slid into the driver’s seat. San Diego was known for its cool nights even in the summer, and I was tempted to tell him not to bother and just roll the windows down. From my first visit, I knew the airport was very close to the harbor, making the air even cooler at this time of night.
Mike pulled out and headed for the exit as I stifled a yawn. “Vicky says you’re here for a month. What brings you to California?”
“Something happened at work, and I’m on a sabbatical of sorts.” I couldn’t keep the sneer out of my voice, and he must’ve picked up on it.
“Sounds like there’s a story there, but I won’t pry.” He adjusted the vents to make sure I was getting air, which made me smile. So considerate.
“I don’t mind telling you. Any friend of Vicky’s is a friend of mine,” I answered, shifting in my seat to face him a little more. He grimaced, but he quickly recovered.
What was that all about? Mike has officially piqued my curiosity.
“Anyway, I’m an interior designer like Vicky. I’d been working on restoring an older villa for a new client. After a miscommunication with the contractor, a hidden 18th-century fresco was damaged, and the client is holding me responsible.” My head ached just repeating the story.
“That doesn’t seem fair,” he said, merging onto what looked like a major freeway.
“No, it’s not, but in these instances, someone has to bear the blame, I guess.” Looking around at the passing buildings, with the harbor in the background, I smiled. When we got near the arches of Balboa Park, it blossomed.
He must’ve sensed something when I went quiet and stole glances at me while he drove. My eyes took in the shining white arches, and I automatically turned in my seat to look back at them through the rear window as we drove under and away from them.
“Home?” he asked, surprised as his voice lifted in tone.
I hadn’t realized I had said that out loud. Blushing, I turned back to the front, unsure how to reply. I worried my bottom lip, trying to figure out what to say, but he must have gotten the hint and didn’t push further. I wasn’t used to someone being so tuned in to me that they’d notice such small gestures.
I looked at him from the side, sneaking my own glances at him as he drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. Mike was indeed an attractive man, but there weren’t any big fireworks on my side. And yet, there was an immediate sense of comfort, which was surprising. I tended not to trust men when I first met them, thanks to Mama’s promptings. Still, it made me wonder if there might be some attraction on his end by the way he was acting.
He cleared his throat, and I hurriedly turned back to face the windshield again. “So, any sisters or brothers back home? Or anyone…special?”
I looked away and smiled at the side window. Schooling my face, I turned back to him. “Are you trying to ask if I have a boyfriend, Mike?”
He huffed and squirmed in his seat but said, “No.”
“Well, there’s no one special, and it’s just my parents and me.”
“Oh, we have that in common. Only child,” he said, pointing to himself with his free hand.
“Which means you’re a spoiled brat,” I joked.
“Right back at you,” he said with a wide smile.
I laughed. “In my case, not really. My mother was pretty tough on me. Not exactly the spoiling kind. Wanted me to grow up to be independent.”
“I see. Well, mine have practically lived in Africa most of my life, so Grammy and Grandpa did the spoiling.” When I looked confused, he said, “Story for another day.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I went back to looking out the window at the passing buildings. That’s when I heard him release a loud sigh.
“I, I, uh. Ren, ah. Shoot,” he whispered, making me turn back to face him.
“What? What is it?” I asked, searching his profile. Was he out of gas? Got a text I didn’t see?
Looking at me quickly before turning back, he shook his head. “Ren, I don’t even know how to explain the mess I’ve gotten myself into tonight.”
What in the world could have this man so twisted up? The jovial, easygoing guy Vicky described looked as if he were about to come out of his skin or heave. Maybe both. And why washe sharing this with me, of all people? He must’ve taken my statement about being his friend to heart quickly.
“Tell me. Maybe I can help,” I said, hoping to calm him down, unsure what else to say.
He scoffed, which irritated me. Why bother telling me he was in some kind of trouble, then make me feel silly for offering to help him?
