Joy Ride

“Girls just wanna have fun,” she mouths to me. Then out loud, so her mechanics can hear I presume, she says, “How the hell are you, Mr. Summers?” She drops my hand. I want to shake it off. I don’t.

“I’m well. How are you, Ms. Marlowe?” Two can play at the formal name game.

“I’m fantastic.” She snaps her gaze to the young guy, as well as to the blonde. “Mark and Karen, I have to head to my meeting. Can you two close up?”

“Absolutely,” Karen says with a quick nod, and heads to the tool sets at the far end of the garage.

“I’ll be right back,” Henley says, then steps closer and whispers, “I can’t wait to hear you grovel.”

How the fuck does she know I’m here to grovel? But when I look down at the bakery bag in my hand, I suppose my mission must be apparent. Damn, this woman can read clues like nobody’s business. She heads into a small office.

“Hey man,” Mark says, nodding at me. “Love your work. I’m a big fan.”

“Appreciate that.” I gesture to the red beauty. “You’re doing a great job on this Spider.”

His blue eyes light up, and he proceeds to rattle off a few high-level details of the build. No trade secrets, just the basics of the customization.

“Damn,” I say with an appreciative whistle. “You do nice work, Mark.”

He beams. “Thanks.” He shuffles his feet then clears his throat. “I got my degree a couple years ago. I had a partial scholarship, thanks to you.”

“Yeah? That’s fucking awesome. You clearly deserved it.”

I hold up a fist for knocking, and he reciprocates. He stares at his fist for a moment. “Thanks to you. It helped me so much. I want to run my own shop someday.”

“Do it. You can absolutely do it.”

A smile as wide as Central Park fills his face, a reminder of one of the things I love best—giving young guys and gals a chance to realize their dreams. So fucking worth it.

The clack of heels across the concrete halts the conversation. Our eyes turn to the woman again, and I almost want to say to Mark, “Good luck working with that kind of distraction all day.”

But that would be sexist and douchey. Not to mention, weak as fuck.

Men should be able to deal with beautiful women at work. With any women. They need to handle the presence of the opposite sex without making lewd comments to the lady, or to each other when she’s not around. If a man can’t do that, he’s not a man. Hell, when Henley worked for me, I learned to seal up every last ounce of lust I felt for her in a Ziploc bag and make sure I never let on to a soul.

No way will I reveal my hand now, either, even though she cleans up well. There’s not a streak of grease on her, and her chestnut mane looks like she just stepped out of a salon. She’s a pristine, confident businesswoman. With a twist. She’s changed from a work shirt to a T-shirt—a dressy, quirky kind, with a V-neck. It says Rainbows and Unicorns for the Win under a cartoonish image of the mythical creature breathing a rainbow.

“Cute shirt,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says, glancing down. “It’s ironic.”

“Figured as much.”

A big booming voice calls out my name. I turn on my heel to see the silver-haired and mustached John Smith. “How the hell are you, Max?” he calls as he strides across the garage.

“Excellent, as always,” I say. Even though we’re rivals, we’re civil. You know, since we’re not dickheads. Besides, every now and then you wind up working together somehow for a client, or sharing one, like Livvy. “Nice work on the Spider. I was just telling Mark.”

When John reaches me, he holds out his hand to shake. “My team does great work. So does my top builder,” he says, tipping his head proudly to Henley.

I glance at her. “She’s fantastic.”

She smiles at both of us. “Thank you.”

“And I’m glad she came back to town to work with me rather than you,” he says, punching my shoulder and giving me an I won look. Fair enough, I suppose, even though we weren’t fighting for her.

“You’re lucky to have her.”

He pats Henley on the shoulder. “I absolutely am. She’s a keeper. See you around,” he says, then he turns back to chat with Mark while Henley and I leave the shop.

Once we’re out on the sidewalk, I say, “He sure likes your work.”

“He has good taste,” Henley says.

I point at her shoes. “Do you actually work on cars in heels?”

She rolls her eyes as she slides her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “No. I just put them on. I’m heading to a meeting. We can walk and talk.”

“Shouldn’t that be walk and grovel?” I suggest as we head off.

She arches an eyebrow. “Yes. Feel free to begin.”

I’m about to launch into my apology when I’m struck with a realization—we just exchanged several sentences without slinging invectives at each other. “Do you realize we didn’t insult each other for the last fifteen seconds? Must be a new record for us.”

“Hmm. It must be. Let’s break it right now,” she says as we walk in step along the side street.

But I don’t take the bait. “I got you something.”

“Ooh, wait.” She stops in her tracks, grabs her phone from her purse, and pretends to click a button. “It’s apology time. I need to record this moment for all posterity.”

I roll my eyes. “Forget what I said about the record.” I wave a hand dismissively. “We’ll just smash through it again, especially since you make me want to take back the apology.”

“Fine. Say you’re sorry for being a dick in the car. I didn’t mean to stop you. I simply wanted to preserve history in the making.”

I ignore her comment and show her the bag from Josie’s bakery. “It’s monkey bread. My friend Josie runs a bakery and makes the best everything in the world, including monkey bread.” Her brown eyes soften. They’re a lighter shade now, and reveal a hint of vulnerability. “I’m sorry I was a dick with your phone. I shouldn’t have done that. Phones are private.”

“They are,” she says, without any vinegar in her tone. Just honey. “And thank you for saying that.”

“Take the bread. It’s been known to bring about world peace.”

She peeks into the bag and her eyes widen with delight. I swear, they fucking sparkle when she sees the gooey, caramel, cinnamony-sweet treat stuffed with all the goodness in the baking universe. “Is it poisoned?” she asks, but this time she sounds playful.

It’s a welcome change from the vitriol I usually hear, and the vitriol I usually give her back. Keeping my tone light, too, I say, “With arsenic.”

She lowers her nose to the bag and sniffs. “I don’t smell any poison.”

“Arsenic is odorless, sweetheart,” I tell her. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I grab it and hit ignore before I even see who’s calling. I want to be in this moment.

When she raises her face, she hands me the bag. “You better eat it first, then.”

I grab a hunk of the bread and stuff it in my mouth. I chew and swallow in the most exaggerated fashion possible. “See? Safe as can be.”

“Such a valiant taste-tester,” she says with a flirty purr. That sound thrums through my bones. “My turn.”