Joy Ride

I nod, recalling the day I met her. I was showing off some new rides, and she marched up to me, told me about her college degree, flipped open the portfolio of cars she’d worked on during school, and the Camaro she restored for herself when she was a teenager. Then she said, “The next thing on my to-do list is landing a job as the apprentice to the top builder in the country. I’m a fast learner, and I’m not afraid to tackle any problem.”

I hired her on the spot. “You were insistent.”

“You asked me how I learned the trade, and you were one of the few people who didn’t assume I must have been raised by mechanics.”

“I was impressed you learned on your own. You had fire in your belly. You had drive.”

“And that’s why I work my butt off at everything. Even small things, like not swearing. I do that because I don’t want to pretend I’m one of the guys. I want to talk to my colleagues and coworkers like a professional.”

I run my finger over her top lip. “I admire that, even though I do want to hear you say fuck someday.”

“But Max, do you see what I mean?” She shoves my shoulder. “Being around you makes me stupid. I flirt with you, and I get naked in your bathroom, and then I come over and jump you.”

“You do flirt. And you did get naked. But I definitely jumped you,” I say, correcting her.

“How will anyone respect me in this business if I’m just the booth bitch who screws the hottest builder around?”

I snort, for many reasons. “First, thank you for the compliment. Second, I presume you’re not going around and sleeping with every dude in the business.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ha. Ha.”

“Don’t judge yourself because we slept together. The fact that I’ve been dying to get you naked since I saw you again has nothing to do with my respect for your work. And third, you’re not a booth bitch. You make the damn cars. You’re the chick who makes a Corvette cool again. You’re the one who souped up a Camaro at age sixteen. And you’re the kickass gearhead who customized the beautiful red beast for Brick Wilson.” I tap her temple. “That’s where the respect comes from. What you do under the hood, not on the hood. And you’ve got that, Henley.”

“Thank you,” she says, and I can hear the gratitude in her tone. I can tell it matters to her that I respect her talent and her abilities. She taps my chest. “But I didn’t build the red beast. We built the car together. I know that must have been hard for you. To give up control to someone who’s not at your level in the business.”

“It was fine,” I say, because anything more would be a lie. I didn’t want to share the credit on the Lambo, but it is what it is, and I’ve had a good time working with her. “We’ve been a good team.”

“What if I was at your level?” She brings her hands under her chin, and she looks vulnerable, innocent.

I blink. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t own my own shop yet. I’m still not at your level.”

I clear my throat. “What would be different if you owned your own shop?”

“Well, you say I’m your rival, but I’m still Aaron Rodgers to your Tom Brady.”

I crack up, a deep laugh that takes root inside my chest and spreads across my body because she made a football joke of all things. I flop to my back and pull her into the crook of my arm. “Aaron, you are one fine-looking quarterback.”

“And you have so many inches . . . I mean, rings.”

I laugh. “I don’t think we’re Aaron and Tom, though.”

“Who are we, then?”

I flash back to Creswell’s comments at the first meeting. “Cybill and Bruce. Wait. You’ve probably never heard of them. They did this show called Moonlighting.”

She smacks my chest. “I’m not that much younger than you.”

“Six years,” I mutter.

“I was twenty-one when you knew me before,” she muses.

That’s a big part of the issue. Not the age difference. But that I knew her before. That I was wildly attracted to her then. I’ve wanted her since the day I hired her. I’ve been attracted to her ever since she entered my line of sight. It was instant and electric, and I tried desperately to snuff it out. I refused to be the boss who wanted to bang his apprentice, even though I was. The strategy? Resist. I did, white-knuckling it through every day of longing for her. I didn’t make a move because she was my employee, my apprentice, and my job was to teach her, not touch her.

Now, I have touched her, and it’s astonishing the way we fit, the way she feels. I don’t know how that changes things in business, on the project, or in my life. I’d like to think we won’t lose focus.

But that may be wishful thinking.

I didn’t pick up on the seat measurement. She’s the one who went the extra mile and researched Brick’s actual height. Did wanting her cause me to miss that detail? Or would I have missed it no matter what? I don’t honestly know. All I know is when you mix business and pleasure, it’s pretty tough to say you’re all-business anymore.

She worries about respect, and I worry about distraction. She’s moving up in her career, and I’m trying to maintain the pole position I’ve been lucky enough to achieve. This woman is her own brand of diversion because she’s the competition. Though we’re working on a car together, most of the time we will vie for jobs, like we did with Livvy. I compete fiercely with John Smith for business, and Henley’s his lead builder. That, right there, is a conflict of interest, one I don’t know how to resolve.

I glance away from her briefly, spotting the Dramamine pack on the table. I lean over the edge of the couch for it, and she pretends to cling to me, like she can’t bear to let me go. “Don’t leave the cocoon of the blanket,” she teases.

“Just getting something.” I hand her the packet. “It’s for you.”

She clutches them to her chest and flutters her lashes. “You are so romantic. Don’t ever, ever let anyone tell you otherwise, Max Summers.”

“I got you hot chocolate and motion-sickness pills. That’s the height of romance.”

She laughs then bumps her hip against me. I groan because it feels really fucking good. She sets the pills on the table, and I tug her back under the blanket.

As I bring her close to me, she murmurs, “Hey, Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re totally out of my system.” Her voice is sleepy sexy.

“You’re so out of my system, too.”

“I should go, then.”

“You should absolutely leave.”

But as I drag her closer, I inhale that spring apple scent that’s now mixed with sweat, and sex, and me, and I can’t for the life of me want to let her go.

She makes the decision for me.

She’s gone when I wake up.

33

She left a note behind. I discover it on the edge of my bathtub. It’s a Post-It, and reading it does funny things to my chest. Things that feel both foreign and incredibly good at the same time. I carry it around all day.

* * *

To-Do List:

* * *

—Don’t daydream about that guy you have a thing for.

—Don’t stare at his fine butt when you work with him on the car.

—Don’t let on you’re thinking of last night by the window.