Joy Ride
She bounces as if this makes her outrageously happy. “I love to go wild on toothbrushes, too.” She checks out her reflection in the mirror, and her jaw drops. She spins around.
“Max,” she whispers in awe as she stares at a particular bathroom fixture.
“What is it?”
She points then walks as if in a trance to the tub. She falls to her knees and hugs the rim. “You have a claw-foot tub. Marry me now.”
I crack up. “How about tomorrow morning? City Hall is nearby, but it’s closed for the night.”
She frowns. “Do you have any idea how small my shower is?”
I shake my head. “No. Tell me how small it is.”
“It’s the size of a high school gym locker.” She strokes the edge of the white marble tub. “This feels incredible. A claw-foot tub is pretty much the greatest thing in the world. And you want to know the worst part?” She stands and marches over to me, narrowing her eyes. “It’s wasted on you.”
I furrow my brow. “Why would you say that?”
She flings her arm out at the tub. “It’s beautiful and perfect and pristine.”
I laugh again. “I like to keep my home clean.”
“You probably never even use it.”
That’s when I laugh the hardest. I raise an eyebrow. “Surprise. I use it plenty.”
She cocks her head to the separate shower stall. It’s much larger than a locker. It’s the size of most bathrooms. “You have a ginormous shower and a claw-foot tub, and you use the tub?” Her eyes bug out.
“Not all the time. But yeah, I do use it.”
She points at me, swiveling her finger. “You? You like to soak in the tub?”
I nod proudly. “Bubble bath. Bath bombs. The whole nine yards, tiger.” I’m not the least bit embarrassed to admit this to her, maybe because she’s slept on my chest, and my shoulder, and my couch.
She shakes her head like this doesn’t compute. “I’ve never known a man to like baths.”
I shrug. “Guess you don’t know this man.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Guess I don’t.”
I reach into the medicine cabinet and hand her some minty Crest, then leave her alone.
When she emerges a few minutes later, she makes a declaration.
18
Henley’s To-Do List
* * *
—Tell him your fish theory.
* * *
—Say thank-you profusely because, holy moly, I was a mess on the ferry!
* * *
—Ask Olivia what the hell this means. My bestie always knows this stuff.
* * *
—Find a way to steal Max’s tub.
* * *
—Idea: slip him some Dramamine and spend the night in the tub?
* * *
—Bad idea. Keep your eye on the ball. This is your big chance.
* * *
—Don’t blow it.
19
“Fish scent.”
I arch a brow as she stands at the dining room table, an aha look on her face.
“Feel free to elaborate so that your random declaration makes sense.”
“They use the scent of a fish. Penn and Teller.” She paces around the table, a eureka sort of excitement radiating off her. “Think about it. Perfume makers can bottle any sort of scent, from roses to peach to lilies to disgusting scents like ash or smoke. Why not the scent of a fish? Maybe the magicians use a fake fish, but it seems totally real because—well, let’s be honest, anything can be made to look real.”
I nod. “Sure. Hollywood. CGI. I’m with you,” I say, because of course I’ve considered the fake fish idea before.
“But fish has a very noticeable smell. If they want the fish to appear real, it has to smell real, too. That would seem to be the sticking point. But scents can be manufactured, too. What if they made a fishy smell?”
A grin spreads across my face. “That’s kind of brilliant.”
She winks. “I’m good at figuring things out.” She grabs a chair next to me, sets her hands on the table, and clears her throat. “Max, thank you. Seriously. Thank you for taking care of me today. I had no idea I was going to be that out of it. And you were a true gentleman. It means the world to me. If I were you, I’d have mocked me all day. But you didn’t, and I appreciate that so much.”
“I wouldn’t mock you for having an adverse reaction to a drug. Besides, it’s not that adverse to be drowsy.”
“Can I get you dinner or something? Wait,” she says, slashing her hand through the air as if she’s erasing the thought. “Want to order in and then, you know, try to do some work on the car? Since we didn’t get to it earlier and you’re about as much of a work junkie as I am.” She shoots me a knowing smile.
“Which would mean I’m obsessed with it?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
“Guilty as charged. Also, I love your plan, and I did some work today that I’d like to show you. Do you like Thai?”
“It’s my favorite, and it will be my treat. I insist. You did let me get acquainted with your couch all day long, after all.”
“Pretty sure the couch enjoyed its day, too,” I say, and it sounds like I’m flirting with her. Maybe we’re making progress.
We spend the next few hours diving into noodles and chicken satay as we debate some of the features of our hero’s Lambo. We settle on a few, and I’m remarkably surprised at how well we work together. I expected a bloody battle. But then, up until the Mustang fiasco, we always did work well together.
When the clock ticks toward ten, she says, “I guess I should go.”
There’s a note of longing in her voice. I don’t know what to make of it, and I’m not going to attempt to read the tea leaves of Henley, so I ask if she wants me to order an Uber.
She doesn’t answer right away, and my heart stutters, wondering what she wants. She doesn’t want to stay over, does she? Oh shit. Is she game for my favorite indulgence ever? A burst of red-hot excitement tears through my body over the possibilities, even though it would be so immensely stupid to screw her. I tell myself that over and over as I wait for her to speak again.
Please say you want to stay so I can bang you against the wall.
Shit. No. I work with this woman. I can’t do that. Must extinguish all wall-banging urges immediately. I shut my eyes momentarily, snuffing them out.
“Unless . . .”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips and my dick hardens. Screw the wall. The dining room table works just fine. Lift her up, spread her legs, make her fucking soar in pleasure.
Except, she’s not looking at me with sex eyes. She’s staring at my bathroom.
She doesn’t want me. She wants my fucking tub. Great. Just great.
“Just say it,” I urge.
“Say what?”
“You’re only being nice to me for access to the bath.”
“That’s so not true.”
“Say it.”
“It’s not true,” she says, but I hear the smirk in her voice.
“Henley,” I say, adopting a tone as if I’m talking to a kid, “do you want to take a bath?”
“Oh God, I do, I do, I do.” There’s nothing childish about her reply. She sounds desperate, full of desire. Like that, with her big, brown eyes, her sweet, sexy smile, her brown hair spilling down her shoulders, she’s irresistible. She’s the lion, she’s the tiger, and she’s the kitten you can’t not take home.