Joy Ride

“I said lime. This is the kind of stuff you need to get right, because this is going to require a complete redo and that costs time and money,” I’d told her in my best stern voice. My job was to teach her, not take her into my fucking arms and comfort her.

She’d swatted away her tears, raised her chin, and implored me to give her another chance. I gave it to her, fixing the Mustang with her, side by side, stripping the paint and starting over from scratch. Maybe that was my problem—being so damn close to her. It messed with my head, and every day I told myself, “Don’t treat her any differently just because she smells so goddamn sweet.” Every day, I grew more stern with her. Tensions between us were already frayed thin, and they unraveled even further. A little later, when it was time for me to choose which apprentice to move up, I told her it wouldn’t be her.

I stood by the decision at the time. I still stand by it today. She wasn’t ready. Plain and simple. My decision had nothing to do with her talent—she had more raw ability than anyone I’d ever worked with. It was all natural, too. Henley didn’t come from a family of mechanics, and she wasn’t raised by a dad who built cars. She was like me—drawn to cars in a bone-deep way from a young age, and that was why she studied engineering in school, and that was why she sought me out post-graduation so she could learn the trade.

My issue was simply that she needed more discipline to balance her talent. After the lime gold fiasco, I told her she could stay on with her apprenticeship and keep learning. I promoted one of the guys instead. She didn’t like being passed over one bit, and she parked those hands on her hips and stared at me like I was Hannibal Lecter.

“Maybe I should have gotten it right the first time, but I bet if I were one of the guys, you’d forgive the lime gold mistake a lot more easily, wouldn’t you?”

I’d blinked in shock and held up my hands, as if I needed to fend her off. “Whoa. This has nothing to do with you being a woman.”

She’d shot me a pointed stare. “Are you sure it doesn’t?”

I didn’t like the way she was making accusations. I narrowed my eyes. “No. It has to do with you giving me attitude. Like you’re doing right now.”

“I’m not giving you attitude. I’m giving you the truth. I’ve worked my butt off for you, and this is ridiculously unfair.”

“And you’re acting ridiculously out of line.”

“Why can’t you give me another chance to earn the promotion?” Her voice shook as she asked that question, her eyes threatening to fill with tears again. “I told you it was an honest mistake. I showed you that I wrote it down wrong. Are you that cruel that you can’t let this go?”

“Are you this dramatic? I’m keeping you on. I’m just not moving you up yet. You’re not ready. It’s that simple.”

“This dramatic? Would you call a man dramatic?”

“If he was making a scene like you are, you bet I would.”

That was when she’d hurled her insult, like an angry goddess on a mountaintop flinging a ball of fire from her bare hands. “You’re nothing but a cruel bastard.”

That shit was not going to fly.

I drew a deep breath, sucking in all my anger. “Maybe I am. But this cruel bastard just fired you,” I said as calmly as I possibly could.

Her jaw dropped, and her brown eyes flooded with hurt. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I turned away, stalking back to the office. I slammed my door and that was when I fumed—at her, but mostly at myself for letting it get to the point where we both were driven by anger.

I’d dragged a hand roughly through my hair, my jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing so hard in my neck I could feel it beat. What the fuck was wrong with me? I’d just fired the most talented person I’d ever worked with. How the hell did she get so far under my skin?

I reminded myself again and again that no matter how skilled she was, nobody talked to me that way. I was the boss, and that was how it was going to be. The woman came to me to learn, and she was going to learn an important lesson. She didn’t get to say whatever she wanted, no matter how pissed she was.

I would walk back out there, calmly explain why I was letting her go, wish her well, and encourage her to get a handle on that mile-wide stubborn streak.

I turned the knob to return to the garage and found she was already gone.

10

Whatever bad juju is between us, I need to set it aside. I was younger then and more hotheaded. I’d like to think I’m smarter now, though playing games with her phone in the backseat of the town car might suggest otherwise. That’s all the more reason for me to man up and say I’m sorry.

I draw a deep breath as I turn the corner.

When I reach the garage of John Smith Rides, I half wish I’d snagged that cab to anyplace else, while the other half of me takes a mental snapshot of God’s most perfect union—woman and car.

Wearing a little black skirt, Henley is inspecting the hood of a cherry-red Alfa Romeo Spider.

I’m not sure which sight makes me harder—her or the car. Both are giving off seriously sinful come-hither vibes. But when my eyes roam down Henley’s body to her shoes, I decide girl trumps car, because she wears dark red heels.

Fucking heels.

Who does that? Who fucking does that?

Someone like her, that’s who.

Mind control. That’s what I need. The most intense mental trickery possible.

She smells like cat pee. Her breath reeks of rotten eggs. Her strands of hair form poisonous snakes.

She’s a slithery, stinky Medusa.

I zero in on that image, letting it fuel me to enter Medusa’s lair.

As I walk to her, I notice for the first time she’s standing next to a guy, a younger dude, maybe in his early twenties. I didn’t see him at first, but how could I be expected to, given the twin sights vying for ownership of my King of Pleasure soul? Another woman is here, too. A petite blonde with her hair in a ponytail. I bet that’s Karen.

Henley sets down the rag and brushes one hand against the other. Her back is still to me. “Tomorrow we’ll polish the interior, and we should be good to go,” she says to the baby-faced guy.

“Sounds like a plan, Ms. Marlowe.”

She cocks her head. “Mark,” she chides gently, “for the twentieth time, call me Henley.”

“Just say it, Mark. You can do it,” Karen says with a smirk, ribbing him. “Henley.”

“Henley,” he says, then shakes his head like the word feels awkward on his tongue.

The guy makes eye contact with me, raising his chin and nodding a hello. “Ms. Marlowe . . . I mean, Henley. Max Summers is here.”

Henley’s shoulders square, as if a dose of adrenaline surges through her, powering up her Fight Club instincts—the ones that tell her to pummel me.

She spins around. Her lips are a razor-thin line, and her brown eyes take aim at me. Rat-a-tat-tat. Gunfire’s coming now. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the king of Manhattan’s custom car business.”

Her expression morphs to a gregarious grin, as if we’re old buddies. She closes the distance between us and extends her hand. I can tell she’s being somewhat civilized for the sake of her mechanics, and it impresses me as a business owner. I have to give it to her that she can rein in her distaste.

I take her hand, and then she squeezes the ever-loving fuck out of my palm, crunching her fingers over mine. I wince instantly and nearly emit an ouch. But I’ve still got my man card on me, so I suck it up. I will not say ouch. I will not say ouch. I will not say ouch. Ever. Her evil eyes light up, twinkling with mischief as she reads me right. I had no idea she was so strong or could catch me off guard so quickly in a handshake squeeze-play.