Page 62 of Ice Darling
“I’m not going to see Renthrow. He’s not even there!” I yell back.
“But you want him to know that you were thinking about him. And that’s even cuter.”
“You guys are ridiculous,” I mumble.
After securing my tool box to the back of my bike, I lower Renthrow’s lunch bag in the storage space under my seat. I don’t plan on giving this back yet. I want to wash it first, and I’ve got to keep it safe until then.
Satisfied that it’s secure, I free the kickstand and roar down the road. The sun is warm on my face and I slow the bike down, so I can enjoy the view rather than watch the world blur by.
The bike rumbles beneath me, itching to go faster, but I keep her on a tight leash. It’s too beautiful of a day to push to the max.
When I near Renthrow’s cozy bungalow, I notice his mother’s van is in the parking lot.
A spark of excitement ignites although I tell myself that I don’t care. Earlier, I called Mrs. Renthrow to check that she’d be home, and she said that she would be. It’s possible thatRenthrow left the garage and took the van back to his mother right after.
“He’s probably not here,” I mumble.
But I kind of hope he is.
I bound up the stairs with my tool box and knock on the door, fully expecting to see Mrs. Renthrow.
The door opens.
Renthrow’s hazel eyes widen in surprise. “Cordelia.”
“Hi.” The word sounds breathless to my ears. “Uh, I’m supposed to meet your mom?”
“She left about twenty minutes ago with a friend.”
“She did?” That’s strange because I’m very sure she said she’d be here to receive me. “Wait, what are you doing here? Don’t you have a Lucky Strikers meeting?”
“Mom called and said there was an emergency.”
“Wasthere?”
His eyes slide over me, and he sighs but not unhappily. “It depends on what you define as an ‘emergency.’”
I shake my head. “Another setup.”
Our mothers are relentless.
“I don’t mind this time.” Renthrow rakes his fingers through his hair. “The team is kind of a mess at the moment, and I was glad to get away.”
My gaze searches his face, finding exhaustion and worry stamped into his features. I’m not one to care, generally, when people seem upset around me.
After years of watching my sister fall for dozens of sob stories, I’ve hardened myself to it all. Being a Davenport taught me that schemers will happily and eagerly play on your sympathies to get their way.
But I don’t feel that Renthrow is manipulative at all. He seems genuinely troubled right now.
I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “You want to help me fix a car?”
He tilts his head in confusion.
“It worked on Gordie.”
“Are you mistaking me for my daughter, Miss Davenport?” Renthrow leans against the door and folds his arms over his chest, bringing my attention to his bulging biceps.
I observe his broad shoulders, chiseled jawline, and shaggy brown hair. “I doubt anyone would mistake you for a little girl, Renthrow.”
