Drive

By Stephanie Fournet

Growing up as the daughter of a world famous blues legend, Rainey Memphis Reeves learned everything she needed to know about musicians. They are phony, unfaithful, and never home — even when it matters.

Six years ago, an accident left her shattered, and even now, Rainey can’t trust herself behind the wheel of a car.

But when she meets Jacques Gilchrist, the sweet, soulful, and heart-stoppingly handsome Uber driver, Rainey discovers she can forget her fear when she’s with him.

Until she learns he’s a musician. And worse than that, he’s good. Too good.

Jacques Gilchrist has tried for years to break out of the small-town music scene, but as soon as he meets Rainey, he can’t stop writing songs about her. He’s about to take the world by storm, but if he wants Rainey by his side, Jacques will have to prove he’s nothing like her father.

He’s determined, even if he has to drive her across the country to do it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Fournet
• Release date: Nov 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005883515

Stephanie Fournet

Stephanie Fournet, author of eight novels including Leave a Mark, You First, Shelter, and Someone Like Me, lives in Lafayette, Louisiana—not far from the Saint Streets where her novels are set. She shares her home with her husband John and their needy dogs Gladys and Mabel, and sometimes their daughter Hannah even comes home from college to visit them. When she isn’t writing romance novels, Stephanie is usually helping students get into college or running. She loves hearing from readers, so look for her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, and stephaniefournet.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

Jacques Gilchrist awoke to the strains of his grandfather’s accordion and questioned his life choices.

White sunlight blazed through his bare windows straight onto his bed, but that had not been enough to drag him from sleep. Not after a night when he dropped his last rider off at 2:12 a.m.

And there was his problem. As an Uber driver, his busiest hours on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights were from 11:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. Prime time for bar departures. Which meant he’d slam into bed near three in the morning, but Pere Albert—or Pal as Jacques had called him since he was eleven—believed sleeping past eight was a cardinal sin.

Joe Pitre à deux femmes… Joe Pitre à deux femmes… Pal bellowed from the bottom of the stairs, his accordion a merry assassin to the quiet of the morning. C’est Rose et Rosa… Et moi, j’en ai pas. Pal stomped his foot in time with the traditional Cajun song, and for a seventy-six-year-old man, he was still strong enough to make the windows in Jacques’s room rattle.

Jacques pushed himself up and scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering for the ninety-third time why he didn’t get his own place.

Pere Albert, pronounced the French way (Al-bear), went to bed every night at nine sharp. He rose at five on the dot, and Jacques knew the old guy did so without an alarm clock. He just sat up, stepped into his brown scuff slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. Pal had probably done this his whole life, but Jacques could only vouch for the last fourteen years—the span they’d lived together.

Eight hours a sleep and a good wife, Pal used to say on weekend mornings when Jacques would stagger downstairs as a grumbling teenager. Das all a man really need. Other than cringing in embarrassment at his grandfather’s thick Cajun accent, Jacques usually had no reply.

Of course, that was before they’d lost Grandma Lucille.

So, for the last five years, every time Jacques managed to get up before eight, he’d come down and find Pal sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the empty space across from him. And in those moments, Pal wasn’t in his seventies. And he wasn’t Jacques’s grandfather. He was just a man missing the woman he loved.

Which was why, at the age of twenty-four, Jacques Gilchrist still hadn’t moved out. Without Jacques sleeping past eight, Pal would have no reason to rattle a cast iron skillet on the stove for a good two minutes. Or have a sudden coughing fit in the hall right outside Jacques’s bedroom.

Or stand at the foot of the stairs with his accordion, singing Joe Pitre at the top of his lungs.

Pal wrapped up his song with a flourish as Jacques descended the stairs and stepped into the kitchen.

Morning, he mumbled to his grandfather before heading for the coffeepot.

It almost nine, Pal cautioned, setting his accordion down on an empty chair. Not, Jacques noted, in Grandma Lucille’s old spot. Dat gonna taste like crank case oil by now.

Jacques just nodded, poured the coffee dregs into the sink, and cleaned out the basket.

Might as well make enough for the boat of us, Pal observed, taking his seat at the head of the kitchen table and flapping open the newspaper he’d surely finished reading an hour before.

As if I’d do anything else, Jacques said, waking up a little now.

Pal just snickered into the newsprint.

No gig last night? Pal asked after Jacques filled the reservoir and flicked the button that read Brew.

No gig last night, he confirmed, moving to the table and sitting across from his grandfather. Without the band, I’m not ‘brand specific’ for some of my usual venues.

His band, Epoch—the central focus of his life—had fallen apart a month ago, and Jacques hadn’t quite recovered. When word spread that he’d be playing solo, Jacques Gilchrist could gather a crowd, but not as many venues wanted a one-man act. People had flocked to the stage when he had drums and a bass to back him up. They’d danced. They’d sung along. They had made him believe it might happen for him.

But Chris, his bass player, was getting married in June and said he needed to cut that shit out. Jacques had asked him more than once why getting married meant he had to give up performing, but his buddy’s only response had been, C’mon, man. We gotta grow up sometime.

He should have seen it coming. Chris had been missing the odd rehearsal to go look at houses with Courtney, and he’d been working later at H&R Block and talking about finishing the coursework for his CPA certification.

Not cutting another album.

Pal lowered the corner of his newspaper and raised a brow. What you gonna do ‘bout dat?

Jacques met his grandfather’s gaze and refused to shrug, even though he wanted to. At least Jacques hadn’t been surprised when Blake bailed after Chris. They weren’t tight. In fact, Blake barely spoke to him outside of rehearsals and gigs. The drummer had found a new spot in a folk-rock band so fast, Jacques wondered if he’d been planning a move even before Chris pulled out. Jacques knew a few musicians who could spot him now and then, but they were all committed to other bands on a regular basis, and, frankly, the ones who weren’t just sucked.

Which meant, for now, he was screwed.

Find a new band, he said. It just has to be the right band. He didn’t kid himself. The noose of time was tightening. He was in his mid-twenties. Make or break time. And he wanted to make it more than anything. He was good. He knew that, but he needed the right act to be great.

Pal gave up the pretense of reading the paper and set it down. Well, I know you been writing songs, he said, his mouth twitching. You think I don’t hear you playin’ without the amp, but I do.

Jacques rolled his eyes. So much for trying to be quiet on his Gibson after his grandfather went to bed. But Pal was right. He was writing something. It just wasn’t coming together. The melody stirred in his blood, but so far, no lyrics rose to meet it. And he’d waited for the words to hit him like they usually did in odd moments of the day, but the moleskin he always carried in his pocket in case inspiration struck hadn’t been opened in days.

Sorry if I kept you up, he muttered, pushing away from the table. He snagged his grandfather’s empty mug and brought it back to the counter where his waited.

Pal just made coughing, snuffling noise to dismiss Jacques’s apology. Even though it was his house, Pal never held that over his head. He refused to charge his grandson rent—though Jacques covered the utilities and helped out with the groceries. And Pal had never treated Jacques like a child—even when he had been one. But the two of them hadn’t quite reached the point where they lived strictly as roommates either.

Maybe because they both knew the situation would have to change sometime. Jacques wouldn’t always be an Uber driver looking for music gigs—at least he seriously hoped not. And Pal wouldn’t need a two-story—albeit modest—house on Saint Louis Street as he approached eighty.

Jacques stirred sugar into his coffee and tried not to dwell on what the next step for each of them would mean.

Chapter Two

I need another book, Holi said over the phone.

But we packed a book. Rainey pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could finish her crochet stitch without losing her place.

And I’ve been here twenty-four hours— Holi’s cough burst over the line, and Rainey immediately winced in guilt. Her sister cleared her throat and talked through her straining voice. … and I finished it this morning. Could you please bring me the next one? I’m dying here, Rain.

You’re not dying, Rainey scolded. You have pneumonia. And you’re going to get better.

More books, Holi whined. "It’s so boring. Besides, what are you doing? Crocheting on the front porch like some granny?"

Rainey leaped off her favorite front porch settee as though it were on fire. No… she lied unconvincingly. Isn’t there… like… a lending library at the hospital? Couldn’t you find something to read there? She was terrible. She knew she was terrible. If their roles were reversed, Holi would already have keys in hand and a stack of books ready to go. She’d zip across town in her Mini Cooper and be at Rainey’s side in fifteen minutes tops.

But for Rainey Memphis Reeves, it wasn’t so simple.

With Archie, her four-year-old golden-brown poodle mix at her heels, she opened the screen door and pushed her way inside the custom-built house she shared with her sister. Technically, the house belonged to their mother—after her parents’ divorce. And technically, Rainey and Holi were only half-sisters—the Reeves’ half—but Rainey couldn’t remember a time when her big sis, Billie Holiday Reeves, wasn’t a part of her life.

"I don’t want just any old book. I want The Wayward One. It’s by Danielle Harmon. It’s—"

I thought you read that one already, Rainey said, tucking her crochet hook into the body of her unfinished slipper-sock and stuffing it into her craft bag with its mate.

No— Holi’s protest ended on a cough. "You’re thinking of The Wild One. That’s the first in the series. I want the last one."

How many are there?

This is number five, and I want to finish the series before I die. Holi tried to heave a resigned sigh, but a coughing fit overtook her.

Stop it, Rainey begged in whisper.

Please, Holi begged in return. I know I’m asking a lot, but Ash won’t get off work until six, and I can’t just lie here for another nine hou—

Fine. Fine. I’ll bring more books. Where are they, and which ones do you want?

Holi cheered and then coughed before instructing Rainey to go upstairs to her room. She then rattled of a list of five titles, and Rainey wondered just how long her sister planned to be in the hospital.

Rainey stayed on the phone until she found each new book. You really need a Kindle, she muttered, shoving each into the purple and gray slouchy backpack she’d crocheted for Holi last fall.

You know I’m a purist. Paper forever, Holi vowed.

Yeah, but if you had a Kindle, you wouldn’t need to wait on me. And I wouldn’t need to figure out how to get there, Rainey added silently.

So… how are you going to get here? Holi asked as if she’d read her mind. The forced casual tone of her voice was as subtle as a neon sign.

Rainey flopped down on Holi’s bed and sighed. Archie jumped onto the mattress beside her and curled up with his head on her thigh. Running her fingers through his supple curls, she sighed again.

Her bike was out of the question. Lourdes Hospital was too far away. If Holi had been admitted to Lafayette General, she could bike there in about ten minutes—and do it without risking her life on Ambassador Caffery Parkway. But Holi’s insurance listed Lourdes as the preferred provider, so when her bronchitis—the second bout she’d had this spring—upgraded to pneumonia, that was where they’d gone. By ambulance. And Rainey had taken the bus home.

I could take the bus, she hedged. Rainey hated taking the bus, but if Holi couldn’t drive her somewhere she absolutely had to go, and if she couldn’t ride her bike to get there, she’d wrap herself up in her mocha-brown, worsted-weight, cashmere cape cardigan, put on her sunglasses, and walk to the bus stop in front of their neighborhood by Our Lady of Fatima Church.

Why don’t you just Uber? Holi suggested, her voice softening in sympathy.

Rainey’s response was immediate. Because I’ve never done that, she snapped, and then immediately regretted it. Holi, I’m sorry. It’s just… you know how hard this is for me.

She heard Holi’s sigh over the phone and then waited out the accompanying cough. I know how hard this is for you, Rain, she said, and Rainey could hear the hard-edged, deep-rooted love in her voice, and she knew she was about to get a lecture from her sister. "But as I’ve been lying here all morning—not reading—I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s a good thing I’m sick. Without me—"

Don’t say that. God—

Rainey, she interrupted. Listen. Without me there to drive you, maybe you’ll—I don’t know—start thinking about driving ag—

Fine. I’ll Uber, Rainey bit out, stopping her sister’s words and pulling them away from the subject. I’ll download the app, get a ride to the hospital, and bring you more books.

Rainey, I didn’t mean—

I’ll be there as soon as I can, she said, cutting her off again. And because she felt bad about that, she added a quick Love you before disconnecting.

Rainey gripped the phone in her hand for a solid minute, petting Archie while she willed her breath to come slow. Then, pulling in a breath and releasing it evenly, she tapped the App Store, downloaded the Uber app, and filled in her profile and payment information. She opened the app and watched the little blue dot pulse over her neighborhood.

As she typed Lourdes Hospital into the Where To? window, Rainey could feel her heart clutch without mercy. She hated being able to feel her own heartbeat. It seemed like a countdown. And the more she thought about that, the faster the damn thing went.

Without completing the request, she scooted out from under Archie’s curly head, stuffed her phone in her back pocket, and sped across the hall from her sister’s room into her own. Rainey dropped down on her knees beside the giant wicker basket she kept in one corner of her room for future projects. Skeins of yarn filled the basket to such an extent that a yarn avalanche seemed imminent. But Rainey didn’t have to disturb the pile to find what she wanted.

The black cashmere was the softest yarn she’d ever handled. Rainey had no idea what she would do with it, but it was like feathers, buttery soft, and she hadn’t been able to resist it when she’d touched it months ago at Jo-Ann Fabrics. Though the name of it was Midnight, it reminded her of raven wings, and touching it made her heart slow and her breath come even without her having to tell it to.

Most of her yarns had the same effect in her hands, but the Midnight’s power was unrivaled when she was unraveled. Its softness reminded her of childhood Saturday morning breakfasts and her mother’s favorite robe. For the hundredth time, she wished her mom and Kendall hadn’t moved to Galveston last November.

It wasn’t their fault. Rainey understood that. The oil industry had taken a hit, and Kendall was lucky to be transferred instead of laid off. Galveston wasn’t that far. Just a four-hour drive. And Rainey wasn’t a kid anymore. She was twenty-three. But that didn’t matter. Some days, she really just wanted her mom.

Shaking her head to banish the pathetic thought, Rainey plucked out her phone again and tapped Request Ride.

Chapter Three

"Mais, Jacques, you been playin’ dat song two days, yeah, Pal said as Jacques descended the stairs Monday afternoon. Soun’ good, but I can’t hear da words."

Soun’ sorrowful. The second voice, high pitched and nasally, could only be one other person.

Morning, Floyd. Jacques nodded to their next-door neighbor and Pal’s closest friend before turning to his grandfather. Floyd usually popped in two or three times a day, but he rarely missed his after-lunch cup of coffee with Pal. No words yet. I’ll play it for you when it’s ready.

Pal shrugged mutely at Floyd. Jacques ignored their silent conversation. How’s Mrs. Netty?

Floyd Cloutier pursed his lips. His face was a bed of wrinkles, but his eyes always shone. Not too good. Better dan most. Dat hip’s a bother.

Words for the day? Jacques asked, moving to the refrigerator for a soda. He grabbed his favorite. Swamp Pop Satsuma Fizz.

For you? Books, bags, and blues. Floyd tipped his chin toward Pal. Albert didn’t like his words none.

Jacques had known Floyd and his wife Netty as long as he could remember. Floyd had a gift that defied understanding, but no one who knew him questioned or doubted it. For every person he’d meet on any given day, Floyd rattled off a list of three words that—as he explained it—just came to him. Those words were a kind of premonition for the day. Always alliterative, and often confusing, it usually gave people a frisson when the foretold words popped into their lives.

It had happened to Jacques on countless occasions.

Dollar, D, and Dalmatian had been particularly grim. He had been a junior in high school at the time, and he’d lost the first in a stupid bet. He made the second in chemistry. And he’d killed the third in Emmie Hartfield’s driveway that afternoon. The bet, with his best friend Brady, was over if he could work up the courage to ask Emmie to Homecoming before lunch. He couldn’t. The D was scrawled in red ink across a test on covalent bonds and, disgusted with himself over his cowardice and his stupidity, Jacques had driven to Emmie’s house. The girl had been the object of his crush since the first day of school—and he’d shown his affections by hitting Tonks, Emmie’s Dalmatian puppy, who had darted from the bushes into the path his truck as he pulled into the drive.

Needless to say, Emmie did not go with him to Homecoming.

Floyd’s three words usually weren’t so damning, but it was about a year before Jacques asked for his predictions again. But by then, he’d won Emmie’s heart. It had only taken six months and a purebred Cocker Spaniel Jacques had worked all winter at Subway to purchase.

Emmie had named the puppy Olive because she was Jacques’s peace offering. And then she’d dated him for three years.

Jacques shook the unbidden memory from his thoughts. What were his three words? he asked Floyd, grasping for anything to clear his head.

Floyd snickered through his nose, a squeaky sound he often made. Pipes, pills, and piles.

Pal threw up his hands. What you doin’ dat for? Why you gotta tell him I got piles?

Floyd’s laughter ran away with him. "I didn’t. You did, mon ami!"‘

Piles of what? Jacques asked, frowning.

Floyd scrunched up his eyes and hooted at the ceiling. "You don’ know what piles is, cher?"

Scowling, Pal swiped at Floyd and caught his knee with a smack. "Quit bein’ coo-yon," he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. You had piles before you was even twenty-five?

Wiping his eyes, Floyd sobered. Naw, I guess maybe not. Then he frowned at Jacques. Boo, piles is—

Jacques shot out his hand. Wait. Never mind. I don’t want to know, he said. To his relief, his phone chimed with a ride request. He clicked Accept and quickly popped the top on his soda. Gotta go anyway.

Within six minutes, he pulled up in front of a rustic modern house, its walls unpainted cypress, and its inset porch spilling over with potted plants. A steady morning rain had darkened the natural wood, setting it apart from the rest of the neighborhood as much as its architecture did. The other houses on Oakview behind Fatima Church were more stately and traditional. But this one had character.

No one was waiting outside for him, which didn’t surprise Jacques since it was raining. He picked up his phone and looked at the fare info. The rider had no rating information, and the spot for the first name just listed R.M., so Jacques guessed it was a fairly new account. He tapped the clipboard icon to call his rider, and just as he did, Jacques saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

A flash of black. Boots. Skirt. Umbrella.

And then the rear passenger door opened and glittering hazel eyes met his.

Are you Jacques? she asked, frowning a little, her plump lower lip vanishing between her teeth.

Jacques cleared his throat, his voice—the best thing about him—suddenly AWOL. Uh… yeah… that’s me.

Sorry, she said, wrinkling her pixie nose. I’m not really sure how this works. I’ve never Ubered before.

He watched her slide into his back seat, and he craned back to keep her in view. The hard part’s over, he said. Jacques glanced back at the house. A Mini Cooper sat in the open garage, but no one else emerged from the front door.

Just you? he asked, watching her retract her umbrella and shut the passenger door. She had a weighted-down backpack on one shoulder and a long-strapped satchel over the other.

She scooted into the middle seat and shook off the straps of both bags. Just me, she said, and her eyes flickered to his before she looked away. And I hate—

Jacques waited, but she didn’t finish. You hate what?

The girl gave a tight shake of her head and put on her seatbelt. Never mind. Then she muttered almost inaudibly. Let’s get this over with.

So she was cute and maybe a little nervous. Both were reasons enough to keep her talking. Let me guess, he mused, putting the car in reverse. You’re headed to Lourdes, so I’ll bet you hate hospitals.

Well, I mean… yeah, I don’t like hospitals… She scanned the back and side windows as though she were the one driving.

Jacques made sure the road was clear before pulling out. There wasn’t a car in sight, but his passenger looked around like they were backing onto the Autobahn blindfolded.

He put the car in drive, but he stole a glance at her as he wove through Twin Oaks. Most of his riders weren’t interested in small talk. They were content to keep their eyes locked to their phones and thank him quietly once they reached their destinations. Some, of course, were the extroverted, chatty type, and he was just as happy to humor them. He gave his passengers what they wanted, which was probably why he could boast a 4.9 rating on Uber.

This girl might not want to talk, but it looked like she needed to. This became obvious when he made a left onto Johnston Street, and he heard a smothered whimper from the back seat.

You okay? he asked, meeting her eyes in the rearview. He could see far too much white around her irises, and her lips had all but disappeared, but she nodded anyway.

So she was cute, nervous, and a terrible liar.

You sure?

This time she nodded before speaking. Could you turn up the music, please?

When he drove, he usually kept his music on shuffle, the volume turned low, and the balance in the front of the vehicle to keep from disturbing his passengers. And when he turned up the sound on Radiohead’s Karma Police, the last thing he expected to see was the easing of her face. The girl’s eyes closed softly, and her shoulders lowered a fraction.

Classic, she said under her breath, her eyes still closed. I saw them in Austin in 2012.

Jacques felt his brows climb in admiration. "Cool. So, like a year after King of Limbs released?" he asked, coming to a stop at the light on South College.

Yeah… Hearing ‘Codex’ live moved me to tears. The softening in her voice made him glance up. In the reflection, he saw her gaze had moved to the left window, but he could tell that she wasn’t seeing the scenery. He thought about the lyrics of the song, the way Thom Yorke sang of innocence—as though he missed innocence like one misses a friend.

When they stopped at the light at Doucet Road, he saw she still stared, seeing something he couldn’t. She didn’t look nervous anymore, but whatever had claimed her eyes—a memory, a feeling—didn’t seem happy, and Jacques found himself wanting to lead her away from it.

I’ve never seen them in concert, but that wouldn’t suck, he said, and he watched her blink back to the present.

She offered him a half smile in the mirror.

Even by half, she had an arresting smile that hit Jacques with a jolt.

Her phone bleeped with a text then, and she pulled her eyes away. He drove. Karma Police ended, and his iTunes library, which held more than eight hundred songs, switched over to Pearl Jam’s Just Breathe. Jacques fingered the opening chords on the steering wheel and hummed along with Eddie Vedder.

The light rain fell, slowing traffic, but at least the roads were clear. As the song reached its refrain, Jacques realized he was singing, not humming. He stopped and glanced in the rearview mirror to find the girl’s eyes on him again. The look they held was penetrating but unreadable. Had his singing annoyed her? He silently cursed himself. Uber riders didn’t want a serenade. His steering wheel wasn’t a microphone.

But right after he clamped his mouth shut, she spoke up. "You sound just like him."

Jacques’s cheeks grew warm. Other people had compared his voice to the American rock god that was Eddie Vedder. It had never made him blush.

She’s prettier than other people, he decided. And she was pretty. Beautiful, in fact. Her honey-brown hair was pulled into a barrette, but a single loose curl fell against her cheek, the forerunner of those that spilled down her back.

Thanks, he managed, his eyes connecting with hers again in the rearview.

It’s a good song, she added. She was right. For some reason, Jacques had never thought of covering it, but picturing it now, the idea flung a blanket of chills over his shoulders. With the right crowd in the right place, it would bring down the house.

He brought his eyes back to the road an instant before a red Dodge Durango knifed into his lane, tires screaming. Jacques hit the brakes, and the rear of the Impala sailed over the wet asphalt for a terrifying moment before he steered into the spin and corrected. Horns blared around them, and he narrowly missed the car one lane over, but he didn’t miss the cry of fright from his passenger or the sound of objects tumbling and spilling onto the floor of the back seat.

Jesus, he hissed. When he knew it was safe, he looked back at her, making sure she was okay.

Her eyes were closed, her face the color of ash.

Hold you ‘til I die… Meet you on the other side… Eddie Vedder sang.

She did not move. She just sat, rigid and pale, wearing a look of trauma. Jacques considered pulling over. Hey, you okay?

He watched her eyes flutter open, but they didn’t lose the look of terror.

Jacques put his focus on the road and immediately ground his teeth as he spotted the Durango ahead of them, weaving in and out of traffic, the driver oblivious to the threat he posed on the wet roads. You’re all good… right?

Shifting his gaze between the traffic and the mirror, Jacques caught her blinking half-a-dozen times. Drawing in her lips, she gave a jerky nod, but she looked far from okay. The urge to reassure her overtook him.

I promise, I’ll get you there in one piece, he told her. He forced a smile at her reflection, and the tightness around her mouth and eyes softened.

I was sure we were going to hit him, she said on a shaky breath. Then she blew out a sigh. "We should have hit him. That was some quality driving."

His own relief surprised him. Not because they’d missed an accident, but because she clearly knew the near miss wasn’t his fault. That he had not been careless. Because as far as Jacques as concerned, there were few worse things than being careless while in control of two tons of metal.

Behind him, she folded over and began picking up the items that had spilled onto the floor. A quick glance showed him they were paperbacks. Romance novels, by the looks of the covers. Steamy romance novels.

Bodice rippers.

He couldn’t remember where he’d heard the term, but bodice ripping was definitely what those book covers promised. The stack of books she now stuffed back into the backpack was far from small.

Had she read all those books? Would she read all of them? Did she read them for the bodice ripping?

This onslaught of questions—and the image of the beautiful girl in his back seat reading bodice rippers—left him almost dizzy, so Jacques swallowed and tried to focus on the music. This is How it Feels by Richard Ashcroft followed Pearl Jam, and he made himself hum along. The light rain became a squall just as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Luckily, Lourdes had a covered drive in front of the entrance.

He came to a stop near the automatic doors and turned, facing the back seat. He wanted to say something to her, to find out more about her, but the right words abandoned him. She slung the straps of both bags over her shoulders and cast her eyes around the car, finally meeting his, frowning.

Do I… What do I do now? she asked, looking a little lost. I don’t have to pay you, right?

Jacques smile had a will of its own. Nah, you’re good. Hopefully, you’ll give me five stars on your app.

She smiled back at him, and the sight of it made his chest rise. I’ll give you five stars, she said with certainty. She opened the door and started to scoot off the seat.

Don’t forget your umbrella, he said, nodding to it on the seat beside her.

He watched her cheeks color. Right. She bent to retrieve it and met his eyes again. Thanks, Jacques.

And then she was gone, but the sound of his name in her voice seemed to linger in the car. In spite of himself, Jacques watched her trot to the hospital doors—her boots light and fast on the concrete, her skirt dancing with a tempting swish—and then she disappeared inside.

He’d never hesitated after dropping off a fare, but he hesitated now. Sighing in resignation, he pressed the gas pedal, and the car moved forward.

And something in his back seat slid back along the floor before stopping with a curious thunk.

Jacques pulled the Impala to the curb, threw it in park, and craned back for a look. And there, unmistakable, lay a bodice ripper. Jacques reached around his seat, snatched up the book, and killed the car’s engine—not caring in the least that he’d stopped in a No Parking Zone. In the next instant, he was out of the car and running full tilt toward the hospital entrance.

As soon as he was through the automatic doors, he scanned left and right for her black-clad figure. He moved farther in, following the signs for the elevator.

Hey— he called as he watched the elevator doors close in front of her. She’d been looking down at the control panel as the doors met. He doubted she’d even heard him. Jacques stopped in front of the double doors, watching the numbers above light up.

The elevator halted on the fourth floor.

He waited and then watched as it moved down to three. And then he took off for the stairwell to his right, taking two steps at a time until he emerged breathless on the fourth floor. Corridors stretched out in front of him in three directions. Panting, Jacques scanned the first two, seeing no sign of her before moving his eyes to the left and spotting the girl all the way at the end of the hall before she turned right and slipped away again.

He thought better of breaking into a run. Running in a hospital might attract unwelcome attention. And if someone questioned him, what would he say? He didn’t know her name. He didn’t know the reason she was here. All he had was a romance novel. He looked down at the book in his hand. The cover featured a couple in period dress wrapped in a passionate kiss, behind them a stormy sea. The man, a hulking beast with jet-black hair, had his hand behind the woman’s raised, white-stockinged thigh, a hint of bare flesh peeking out from her emerald skirts just beyond his fingers.

The Wayward One, the title proclaimed, surely referenced the swooning blonde. She looked pretty wayward. Jacques wondered if the girl he chased longed to be touched like—

You lost, honey?

A nurse in blue scrubs had come up from behind him. Jacques watched her take in the book cover before giving him an amused smile. "Well, that looks interesting."

He cleared his throat. I’m not lost… and it’s not mine.

The nurse, still grinning, gave a sigh. What a shame, she murmured as she continued her way down the hall.

Jacques unglued his feet from the floor and followed the hallway. He slowed when he reached a dead end, expecting to see another hallway where the girl had turned right, but he was met with a row of private rooms. Had she walked all the way to the last one? The second to last one? He studied the names on the patient doors as if this would give him some kind of clue. The last one read H. Smith and the second to last B. Reeves. He stared, frozen.

What the hell am I doing?

He was about to turn on his heel and leave when the second to last door flew open.

It must have fallen under the seat. The girl burst from the room, phone in hand, facing backward and talking over her shoulder. There’s an Uber Help Li— Oh!

She saw him then and halted in her tracks. The heavy hospital room door swung closed behind her, knocking her forward. Jacques caught her by the elbow before she could slam into him. And for an instant, she braced a hand against his chest.

Sorry— She righted herself. The hand over his heart was gone, but he could still feel it.

You okay? he asked, making sure she was steady before releasing her elbow. When he did, he could still feel that too.

Yeah, I’m— Her eyes flew to the book and then back up to his. Oh my God. Thank you! You’re a lifesaver.

The book left his hand, and she clutched it to her chest, her look of relief breaking into a stunning smile.

I’m glad—

My sister was about to kill me, she plowed on, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead. I had no idea if I’d be able to reach you. Jacques, you are the best!

She remembered his name. It amazed him that she remembered his name. Most of his riders forgot it the moment they stepped into his car. He loved that she remembered it. Technically, he could leave now, but he wasn’t about to. Against all odds, he’d found her in the six-story hospital that likely held hundreds of people. He wasn’t about to walk away until he found out more about her.

So the books are for your sister? he asked, nodding toward the cover. She looked down at the scandalous image, her cheeks went scarlet, and she burst out laughing.

The sound, weightless and bright like a tambourine, fell around him. He smiled.

Um, yeah. Historical romance isn’t really my thing.

Oh. Jacques wondered if she heard the disappointment in his voice. But he rallied. "What is your thing?"

Her eyes rounded a little, and she tried to hold down her smile. Um… suspense… romantic suspense.

He felt his brow arch. Romantic suspense? That sounded a lot more exciting than corsets and petticoats.

Yeah… books are… my escape.

What do you need to escape? The question nearly leaped from his mouth, and he remembered the look of trauma she’d worn after the near miss they’d had in traffic. Did her life frighten her? Was she safe? The urge to stand closer to her, to shield her came out of nowhere.

Books are a good escape, he ventured, testing the waters. If your life’s intense.

Her head drew back in surprise. Intense? I don’t think anyone could say that about my life. And as he watched, her cheeks colored again. She glanced down at the book and then back up at him. Thank you so much for getting this back to me. If you wait right here, I’ll get my purse and give you—

Oh, no, Jacques said, raising a hand. He couldn’t let her tip him. That would suck. That’s not necessary. I—

I insist. She put her hand on the door lever, and before she could push it, he covered it with his own.

No, really. That’s not— He stalled, got a hold of himself, and asked for what he wanted. What’s your name?

She blinked at him for a second. She looked down at their hands, hers completely hidden under his. Jacques let go. Then she met his eyes again.

Rainey, she said softly. Rainey Reeves.

Rainey Reeves. It sounded like music. He could write a song called Rainey Reeves. A damn good one.

That’s a pretty name. It sounds like a song, he said, smiling.

Rainey rolled her hazel eyes, looking half-amused and half-annoyed. Yeah, my dad’s a musician. I think he thought it was fitting.

Jacques frowned, the thought dawning on him too incredible to be true.

Books, bags, and blues, Floyd had said.

Rainey Reeves? Is your dad… Is your dad Doc Dylan Reeves?

Chapter Four

She couldn’t escape him.

No matter what, living blues legend Doc Dylan Reeves commanded the spotlight—even from five hundred miles away.

On a sigh, Rainey nodded. Yep. That’s my dad.

He’s a genius, he said. Then he shook his head. "I mean the blues aren’t really my thing, but what that man can do with a guitar…" His voice trailed off in awe.

Which was too bad. The Uber driver was cute. So cute. And the way he’d talked her down in the car when she was silently freaking out had been more than sweet. It had taken all the courage she could muster just to climb into his car and ride with a stranger across town in the first place. When that Durango asshole had nearly sideswiped them, Rainey had almost suffered a heart attack.

For what seemed like ages after, she hadn’t been in the Uber at all. She had been trapped behind the wheel of her old Jeep Wrangler, driving through her worst nightmare. The rain… the screech of tires… the sickening loss of traction…

It wasn’t until she heard his voice cut through the workings of her mind