Joy Ride

I swallow and push back my chair. Might as well hit the road. Go to the gym. Ride my bike with Chase. Then start sketching out kickass Lambo features.

Henley slams her palm to my chest. “Do not even try to insinuate that I was aware of his plan, like you did about me getting Livvy as a client.”

Guess I’m not leaving yet. “I wasn’t going to, but you brought it up. Did you know before this meeting what he was planning? Did you know he hired me then brought you on to share the work? Competing is one thing, but being underhanded is entirely another.”

“I know that, and I know the difference. David called me a few days after the car show where I first saw you. I was busy on Livvy’s car and I needed to give it my full attention. I wanted it to be perfect for her. I didn’t want any distractions.” The way she says that gives me pause, like it’s her watchword. “I wasn’t able to see him until this meeting, but we had talked on the phone last night. I honestly didn’t know you’d be here. Max,” she adds, and her voice is stripped of the barbed wire it usually contains, “I had no clue he would play this kind of bizarre car-building matchmaker game.”

I arch a skeptical brow. “No clue?”

She clasps her hands together, as if she’s imploring me. “No idea at all. That’s not how I do business. I wouldn’t try to pull the rug out from under you. I know better because you taught me better.”

A small burst of pride surges in me. I loved teaching her. Loved the chance to share what I knew about our world. I’m glad some of it stuck with her. “Thanks for saying that.”

“This is a huge opportunity for both of us. Let’s just focus on work and not on . . . whatever this is,” she says gesturing from her to me and back.

But what is this between us exactly? Bad blood? Enemies? Something more? Hell if I know. But business—that I can do. I’ve dealt with unruly clients. I’ve handled suppliers who are late. I’ve juggled insane deadlines and parts that don’t fit and a million other things. I’m not just a businessman, I’m not just the front man—I’m a goddamn fucking mechanic.

That’s what I need to be right now. A guy who fixes a problem.

That’s why I’m surprised as hell when the next question out of my mouth isn’t “How should we start?” but “What did your boyfriend think of the opportunity?”

“What?” She crinkles her nose and cocks her head.

“You called someone when you went to the bathroom.” And that came out more defensively than I’d intended.

She wiggles her eyebrows. “You think I have a boyfriend? And you’re totes jelly, aren’t you?”

“No,” I scoff.

She pokes my side. “Then why did you ask if I called him?” She holds up her thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “A teeny bit jelly? C’mon. Admit it. I won’t tell a soul.”

That question was the dumbest one to ever come out of my mouth, and trust me, it’s had lots of competitors. But I can’t back down yet. “Because you were there so long.”

“Max,” she whispers, as if she’s about to confess, “I have to tell you something. I have an addiction.”

“To what?” I ask with a sigh.

“To Pinterest. To DIY mason jar vase decorations with all sorts of flora and fauna. I got an alert that a new pussy-willow-themed jar had posted, and I could not resist. I have no self-control. That’s why I took my phone in there.” She pretends to break down and sob. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Yeah. I deserved that punking. “Your secret is safe with me. But how were the pussy willows?”

She raises her face and laughs. “Soft and so pretty. Just like a—”

I cut her off. “Anyway.”

“I called my brother, Jay. I turn to him for advice a lot. He’s kind of like a mentor.”

Ouch. That’s the role I was supposed to play with her. I should have been the one she called for advice. But instead, our work relationship is like a telephone line, snapped apart in a storm.

“Also, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she adds, and I try not to let my stupid lips quirk in a grin, because I can’t stand how happy I am that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She waves at me, as if I’m a presentation on a game show. “But you . . . you must have plenty of women. You always did.”

Briefly I think of Becca, the saleswoman, and Ariel, the maid, and I’m glad I can give a truthful answer when I say, “There’s no one.”

Now she’s the one who seems to be fighting off a twitch of her lips, and that makes me want to move in closer to her, slide her hair off her shoulder, nibble on her earlobe . . .

Hear her moan.

The sexy smirk is gone as quickly as it came. Maybe I imagined it. Hell if I know if left is right anymore, let alone what a woman like Henley is thinking. I reach for my glass and take a drink. When I set it down, I aim for monkey bread peace once more. “Look, let’s just concentrate on the build. Doing the best work and kicking ass on the Lambo.”

“Our car baby,” she coos. “We need to start making it.”

“We can’t waste a second.”

She smirks. “I’m ovulating tomorrow, so that might be a good time to get started on our little Lambo. Do you think the connecting rod will be well-lubricated enough?”

I laugh. How the hell did we get from sabotage to dirty jokes? “The rod is always ready,” I say in a deep, rumbly voice.

She drums her fingers on the table, her eyes hooking into mine. Her shoulder inches closer; she moves closer. “Then lubrication won’t be a problem at all.”

I drag a hand through my dark hair, holding her gaze. Her eyes harbor a hint of naughty, and I like it. Who am I kidding? I fucking love her innuendos, even though I’ve no clue why she’d make them. The air between us is thick with our silence for a moment. I don’t look away, nor does she.

“I bet you could get the engine to purr,” she says, breaking the silence. Her voice is a little husky this time. A little dirty.

“I bet I could get the engine to purr so goddamn loudly,” I counter.

She raises a dark eyebrow and runs her finger along the edge of her cocktail glass. “I have no doubt.” She brings the glass to her lips and finishes off the dregs of her mojito. Then, she’s all serious. “So where should we meet? We should start on neutral ground to hammer out the details. Not at one of our shops.”

“Makes sense. So, you’re thinking Yankee Stadium?”

“Ha. More like Bloomingdale’s.”

“In the dressing room?” I toss back.

“Hey, how many babies do you think were made in dressing rooms?”

“In Bloomingdale’s? In New York City? Throughout the history of time?”

“All of the above.”

“Countless, tiger, countless.” And somehow we’re flirting again. “And Bloomingdale’s is a no-go.”

She taps her finger against her chin. “Maybe the M&M store. All the candy will help us be nice to each other.”

I laugh. “Or the New York Public Library then, since we won’t be able to yell.”

It’s her turn to laugh.

Then, an idea strikes me, and I tell her my plan.

Her eyes sparkle. “I like that. I’ve never been on a big boat before.”