Joy Ride

“Are you a girl?” Nick tosses out from the couch to his best buddy.

Spencer’s eyes drift downward. “Nope. But men can like cinnamon rolls.”

Nick rolls his eyes from behind his glasses. “She said he was getting them for a girl, dickhead. That’s why I said it.”

“Who is Max buying cinnamon rolls for?” Harper calls out from her spot next to Nick.

“Yes, inquiring minds want to know,” Charlotte chimes in.

I grit my teeth and shove past them into the kitchen, setting down the wine and the wrapped gift.

“Ooh, Maxi-boy likes someone,” Wyatt says as he strides through the kitchen, holding a beer.

“How about we talk about Chase and Josie’s new apartment, not who I bought fucking baked goods for,” I say.

The women all laugh. “Max,” Josie says softly, setting her hand on my back as the others wander into the living room, “if you ever need girl advice, just ask me. Don’t worry about these wieners. I’ll help you. I adore you.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

She tugs me aside, pulling me near the fridge and as out of earshot as possible. “Seriously. Are you okay? You’re grouchy, and I know you’ve got a natural grouch in you, but you seem grouchier than usual.”

“He hasn’t gotten laid in a while, probably,” Chase says as he walks by.

Josie shoots him a shut up now stare.

“What? He alluded to it on the bike ride the other day,” Chase says, and he’s right. Not that I blabber about my sex life to him, but when we were riding one morning, he made a comment about a hot woman who rode past us, saying I should chase her, and I said it had been a while.

“Is it Henley?” Josie asks.

I don’t say anything. My silence is my yes.

“You like her?”

“No, I don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t like her at all. Not one bit.”

Josie gives me a smile then brushes a strand of pink-tipped hair off her neck. “Got it. But if you were to like her, she probably likes you, too.”

I snap my head to stare at her. “Why would you say that?”

“I saw one of the web promos for the car you’re building for the detective show. The one with you, Brick, and Henley. I could see it in her eyes.”

Henley’s chocolate-brown eyes with flecks of gold. Her eyes that are like a color wheel for her emotions. They darken when she’s angry; they lighten when she’s vulnerable.

Josie moves to take a plate of appetizers to the living room, while Chase grips my shoulder. “Dude, she’s right. You’re like Captain Grouchy Pants.”

I look away, glancing at the thermostat on the wall. I put my hand on it, sliding up the needle. “Hey Chase, since this a housewarming party, can I just turn up the heat and call it good?”

A slow clap sounds from the couch. Spencer applauds me with a proud shine in his eyes. “Well done. I doff my pun hat to you.”

“Glad I could entertain you.”

That’s how I know I’m not really affected by Henley. If I were, I wouldn’t be able to make jokes. I wouldn’t enjoy the meal. I wouldn’t have fun with my friends.

I do all of those things, thank you very much. There’s not an ounce of grouch in me.

I can’t say the same for Henley the next time I see her.

23

Henley taps the toe of her combat boot against the sidewalk as if she’s going to jackhammer a hole through the concrete. She takes an inhalation so deep it makes her shoulders rise. Breath seems to puff from her nostrils.

Let’s play Why Does Henley Hate Me Today?

Might it still be because I kicked her out of my house? We haven’t exactly played the what makes a good girlfriend or boyfriend game since that night. Or is there lingering animosity over the pink slip I gave her five years ago? Let’s just be safe and assume it’s both.

The coffee I picked up for her isn’t likely to abate her disdain. I’ve got a steaming cup in each hand from the deli around the corner, the only place nearby open this early on a Sunday.

I walk the final distance to her, crossing the small lot in front of my garage and hand her a cup. “Good morning, sunshine.”

She doesn’t take the cup. “I don’t like coffee.”

“Who doesn’t like coffee?”

“People who don’t like coffee, that’s who. I’ve never liked it,” she adds with a defiant little lift of her chin.

“Never?” I arch an eyebrow skeptically. “When did you last try it?”

“Shortly after college. Didn’t like it then, either.”

Shortly after college is when she worked for me. “You should try it again.”

“Does coffee change?”

“No. But tastes do. Maybe your tastes have changed.”

She stares at me over the top of her sunglasses, pink with sparkles on the frame. They make me think of the unicorn shirt she wore to the meeting at Thalia’s—they’re that cute. They contrast with her eyes, so dark this morning they’re nearly black. “I highly doubt my tastes have changed in five years.”

Five years. The subtext of this conversation isn’t lost on me.

I raise my hands, the two blue cups I’m holding like white flags. “What do you like to drink, then?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes one of the cups, yanking it from my hand. “Do you have sugar?”

“In my pocket,” I say, grabbing a few packs for her. “So you like it sweet?”

She adopts a too-big smile. “Sweetness helps. We’ll see if this is enough.”

She stuffs the sugars into her giant black purse. Something silky hangs over the edge of the purse, like she has a change of clothes in there. She jams the fabric back inside. In her other hand is a pad of paper. It looks like the kind you snag from a hotel. I check out the name. The Hudson over on 58th, not far from here. The wheels in my brain turn. The Hudson is the ultimate boutique hotel for the young and beautiful and horny. It’s the kind of hotel you check into when you want to have hot hotel sex. Maybe that’s why she arrived early. Maybe that’s why she has extra clothes in her bag. Maybe she fucking spent the night in one of those no-sleeping-allowed-only-fucking-is-permitted beds.

I burn with jealousy. “Late night at the Hudson?”

“Seriously?” Her eyes try to laser off my face as she waggles the note pad in her hand, like it’s a weapon she could fire off at me any second. “This is our to-do list. We have a lot to tackle today. I was hoping you would’ve been early.”

I make a big production of looking at my watch. I tap the face. I show her the hands. “It’s nine a.m. sharp. This is when we agreed to meet.”

“I was here at eight forty-five,” she says, straightening her shoulders.

“Would you like a gold star for punctuality?” I ask as I slide the key into the lock and open the door. The alarm sounds its warning, and I enter a series of numbers, then another set before it turns off.

“No, I don’t care about whatever little rewards you do or don’t feel like bestowing at your whim.”

“You think I bestow stars at whim? There’s a detailed system in place listing qualifications for gold, silver, and bronze. No whim involved, tiger,” I say, then down some of the coffee. It’s burn-your-tongue-off hot. Somehow, this suits me fine today.