Joy Ride

—Don’t make stupid sex eyes at him.

—Do wear something so subtly sexy that he has to fight off dirty thoughts all day long.

* * *

As I head to work, I decide the first one is my favorite, and I’m pretty damn sure it’s because it mirrors my own sentiments for her. But the other four items earn strong second-place showings. At the shop, I take her dos and don’ts to heart. When I work with her on the Lambo, I successfully fend off the filthy images. It’s not easy, since she wears tight jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. When she bends over the hood, I cop a peek at the swell of her breasts. They’re heavenly. But so is that smile she wears. I’m seeing more and more of it these days. It stretches to her eyes, and the gold flecks in them sparkle when she shoots me a tiny grin.

“You’re doing it,” I say under my breath, since the guys are working on the Challenger several feet away.

“Doing what?”

I raise my eyebrows and mouth “sex eyes.”

She shakes her head and whispers, “Stupid sex eyes.” She raises her voice. “To be precise.” Then she holds up the wrench and taps the engine to indicate the part she’s working on. “Precise with the head gasket.”

“And if you’re not, you could blow a head gasket,” I say, punctuating it with a sitcom soundtrack drumroll.

Henley pretends to guffaw as if this is the height of humor.

“We don’t like his blown head gasket jokes, either,” Mike barks as he walks behind me.

“Solidarity. Preach it,” Henley says, thrusting her arm in the air, in a rock-on gesture. Then she calls out to Mike. “By the way, that’s one badass set of wheels.”

Mike flashes a grin. “Thanks. They’re pretty sick. Want to see what we did under the hood?”

“Absolutely,” she says, and she joins the guys for a few minutes as they show off their fine-tuning on the car. She nods, asks questions, and compliments them on their work. They don’t leer at her; they don’t stare at her tits. They talk to her, and she talks to them. It’s everything she wants—respect.

Guess I’m the only one who’s guilty of staring at her tits. Shit.

Lords knows, I salivated for this woman back in the day, too. I remember that during the last few weeks she worked for me, my attraction to her had magnified, like a drumbeat growing louder. The day I gave her the assignment for the Mustang paint job, I could barely take my eyes off her. She wore a blue button-down work shirt and dark jeans. Basic, standard clothes. But even with the top button undone, she looked like candy.

Quickly, I gave her the details on the Mustang, and then I took off for a trip to Boston. On the train to Massachusetts, I blasted music in my ears, pissed but grateful to be out of the orbit of my unrequited and wildly inappropriate attraction.

I vowed to do better when I returned. To just fucking smother it with a pillow till it choked its last dying breath.

Instead, I fought with her, and I fired her.

Maybe I’m the kind of guy she’s worried about in this business. The kind who objectifies her. I scrub a hand over my jaw and try to make sense of this memory. It feels like a long-forgotten dream that you suddenly recall with perfect clarity. Then it sticks to you and repeats and repeats in your mind. Only, I don’t know what to do about it or what it means, so I focus on the work.

As we finish up most of the customization and a few more promos that day and into the next, I find myself noticing how well she fits in this business. She’s come into her own as a builder, exactly how I believed she would.

After the guys leave the next day, John stops by in the afternoon to survey the work. The clients are coming over this evening, and he wants to check the car out before they do. John whistles his approval as he surveys the vehicle. “Damn, you two make a helluva team,” he says, then drops his hand on Henley’s shoulder. The sight of him touching her pisses me off. It’s like he wants to remind me she’s his. She works for him. “Bet you wish she was still yours,” he says, with a wink.

Under my breath I mutter, “She is.” I do my best to bite back more words like “she’s mine” and “get your damn hands off her.” Instead, I look at Henley and say, “Yeah, we do make a great team.”

John claps me on the back next. “I’m only busting your chops, Max. I’m just glad I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who convinced this woman to come work with me. She’s the best,” he says, then he gives the woman of the hour a big, bright smile.

I want to punch him.

And I’m not a violent man.

So I play at his game instead. “She’s absolutely tops,” I add, then give her my own grin.

He takes off, and I couldn’t be happier.

Once he’s gone, Henley gives me a curious stare. “Would you like some swords next time to go with your swordfight?”

I roll my eyes. “He’s a little possessive of you.”

“You’re his chief competitor, and I’m his lead builder. Of course he’s possessive.”

“And no, I don’t need a sword. Mine works just fine.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Yes, it certainly does.” She heads to the shelves to grab some tools, calling out as she goes, “But next time, leave me out of the whole talon-lock-over-territory thing,” she says, brandishing her hands like claws.

I give her a salute. “Ten-four, tiger.”

Still, I’m not about to let John win this game of one-upmanship. Besides, Henley is fucking awesome, and I want her to know that. Before David and Creswell stop by to check out the car, I tell her. Because she deserves to know, and because maybe I need to course correct. I want to make up for the overdose of attraction I felt for her in the past. “You’ve got it, Henley. Respect. You really don’t have to worry. And you have it because you’ve earned it.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. I hope so. I need it for—”

But she doesn’t finish because the bell rings.

I wipe my hands and head to the door, opening it for our sharp-dressed clients. Creswell wears a bow tie and his skull shines like he buffed it, while David is decked out in a suit and his ever-present smile.

“She’s almost done. All we need is the specialty emblem now for the hood,” Henley declares, gesturing grandly to the Lambo. Her excitement is infectious. Creswell flings a meaty hand over his eyes and pretends to be blinded.

“It’s like staring at the sun. She’s gorgeous.”

David strides over to the car, crosses his arms, and simply shakes his head in admiration. “I want to eat her up with a spoon.”

I laugh. “Be sure to add whipped cream with a cherry on top.”

We spend the next fifteen minutes walking them through the customization and showing off the work we did, recording it all on video as we go. To say they’re pleased is an understatement. I couldn’t be happier that the client is satisfied with my work. Correction: our work. Even though I shared credit on this one, Henley’s role made the car better.

I flash back to five years ago. To the paint job mix-up. The fights. The insults. I should have been complimenting her work then to the Mustang client. Instead, I was cleaning up the mess we’d made.

Or was it the mess I made?

Maybe I didn’t do enough then to right the wrong. But now, I can make sure she gets the credit she deserves.