Joy Ride

I rip off a smaller bite and hand it to her. But she doesn’t open her palm. She steps closer to me so she’s inches away. Then, she opens her mouth, and she looks like heavenly sin.

Those red lips form the loveliest O, and just like I do with some cars, I experience a kind of insta-love. It’s official—my cock is head over fucking heels in love with her gorgeous mouth and thinking all sorts of filthy thoughts about how to fit inside it, the dirty bastard.

Gently, I put the bread in her mouth, my fingertips brushing over her lips. That slight touch sends electricity straight to my dick, reaffirming his obsession. She chews seductively, murmuring in delight, then swallows. How does she fucking do it? She eats sexily. She walks sexily. She grabs her phone sexily. She probably puts ketchup on fries like it’s a sensual experience. Suddenly, I want to watch her do mundane things—wash laundry, open a jar of mustard, unlock her door—and determine if every single thing she does is a turn-on.

I’d file my report with the Man Council, informing them that I’ve indeed discovered the holy grail of sex appeal—Henley Rose Marlowe. No matter how hard I try to pretend she has the face of a groundhog, she defies me simply by being . . . her.

“You were right,” she says softly.

I blink, trying to remember what I was right about. “I was?”

The corners of her lips curve up. “Yes. I feel so peaceful.” She steps closer to me. “All because of the monkey bread.”

Those lips dust my cheek and she whispers, “Thank you,” in my ear. Her voice is everywhere, sending a sizzling charge across each inch of my skin. As if I’m buzzed. I’m not really sure where I am right now. I don’t know if I’m dreaming, or floating, or fantasizing. This might very well be a mirage, or the world has turned inside out, because Henley is not only being civilized, she’s being intensely flirty. It’s disarming.

That’s when I snap to it.

Disarming. Exactly. She’s the competition. That’s her trick. She probably wants to snag Livvy’s next sports car from under me. She’s Delilah trying to cut off Samson’s hair with her flirty ways. I can’t forget we’re rivals, and monkey bread isn’t a peace treaty; it’s a panacea.

The cold war hasn’t ended.

I back away from her. “Glad you like it. I should go,” I say, gesturing to the sidewalk. I’m meeting David a few blocks from here at a bar.

She points at the pavement, too, and blinks as if she’s reconnecting to earth. I furrow my brow, wondering. Did she feel that spark that was more than a spark?

Then I decide it’s high time to check myself into a sanatorium. Maybe even ask Chase to perform that lobotomy. I’m not the kind of guy who gets fireworks or butterflies or feels as if his feet don’t touch the ground over a woman. Any woman. And especially not this dangerous woman who has the same damn clients I have, and who’s hungry for more. I’m the King of Pleasure, the master of one-night stands.

Fine. I haven’t had one in a few weeks, since well before before I ran into Henley at the car show. Who cares?

“I should go, too,” she says softly.

That soft side she’s showing me today is one more reason why I can’t let myself be fooled. It has to be an act. I take a step in the direction I’m heading. She does the same. Then another. And one more. Soon, we’re at the end of the block, waiting to cross the avenue. “Just heading to a meeting,” I say to fill the awkward silence.

“Same here.”

We cross the street together and walk along the next block.

By the time we arrive at Eighth Avenue, neither one of us utters a word. We both just stare at each other, our eyes saying the same thing—you’ve got to be kidding me.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Heading in the same direction.”

“The spitting definition of irony,” she quips.

As a bus rumbles to a stop when the light turns red, we cross and then we both turn right.

She gives me a side-eyed stare. “You have permission to stop following me now.”

I scoff. “How do I know you’re not following me?”

“As if I’d follow you.”

Then she turns into Thalia’s.

No fucking way.

I groan in annoyance and follow her.

In the doorway, all that sweetness from the monkey bread has evaporated. “Seriously. Enough’s enough,” she says. “I truly appreciate the apology and the sentiment, but we’re all good, and it’s time to move on, Max. I need to focus on my meeting.”

She points to a table in the corner.

“And I need to focus on mine,” I say, gesturing to the same goddamn spot.

David Winters rises, walks over, flashes a big buoyant grin, and says to us, “Join me.”

11

There are enemies and there are enemies. Even though David set this meeting up, I can’t wrap my head around him wearing the black robe of doom.

Ergo, Henley must be the bad guy.

She’s the Joker to my Batman, the Tom to my Jerry, the Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner.

I stare at her, fumes surely coming from my nostrils, red clouds billowing from my eyes. How the hell could she ambush me like this? This is worse than an anvil on the head or a tail caught in a mousetrap.

Though, in all fairness, those predicaments do sound quite unpleasant. But judging from the shock on her face, she didn’t see this coming. And that makes no sense, either.

I follow David and Wile E. Coyote to a quiet corner of Thalia’s. It’s a lounge-type place, with lots of chichi appetizers and fancily named cocktails. The chairs here are low and plush, in a shade of burgundy that matches Henley’s shoes. Hey, I know my colors. No self-respecting car guy can get away without knowing a range of shades—royal purple, emerald green, sapphire blue, midnight black. Or even lime gold.

Henley glances at me as we cross the wood floor, David in front of us. “Did you know about this?” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth.

“No way,” I bite out.

We sit.

“Please accept my apologies that I didn’t alert both of you earlier about the change in number at this meeting,” David says to both of us. He turns to me, looking over the edge of his wire rims. “I tried calling you a few minutes ago but it went to voicemail.”

His must have been the call I ignored. David looks at Henley. “And so did yours.”

“I had mine on silent,” she says.

“Well, phones are the devil, but here we all are, and I’m thrilled.” David clasps his hands together. “I would introduce you, but I have a hunch you already know each other from the car show. And, I’ve got to be honest, once I saw the two of you interact, I couldn’t resist. You really have a sort of fiery chemistry.”

Fiery chemistry? Is he insane? More like acid. That’s what we have.

“It gave me a great idea for the show, but I needed to work out the details, and now I have. I started noodling on this concept after our phone conversation last night, Henley.”

Phone call? Last night? What the hell? I scrunch my forehead. “You two came up with an idea for the show?”

“I’ve asked Henley to play a role on the show, building the car as well. And bear with me, Max. I know we already brought you on, and we plan to honor that commitment and pay you the same fee.” He pauses, takes a breath, and squares his shoulder. “We want you two to build the hero’s car together.”