Joy Ride

I clear my throat. “Guys. I just want you to know that you chose wisely by having Henley on this project. I would have made you a fantastic car myself, but with her involved, it’s even better.”

“We couldn’t be happier that you did it as a team. The two of you have a great spark,” David says as he mimes making an explosion with his hands.

When Henley smiles, her eyes stay on me the whole time. The brown in them is the warmest shade I’ve ever seen, and it does that thing to my chest again. That flopping, flipping thing. I look away.

Creswell gives me a side nod, the universal sign for I want to talk to you in private. I lead him to my small office and shut the door.

“Everything good?” I ask.

“Everything’s great,” he says, then looks at his watch. “I’m heading to Miami for a day trip, but when I return I want to talk to you about a few other projects. We have customization jobs for some other shows in the pipeline, and we want you to do the work.”

That familiar burst of pride and excitement takes root, but it’s tempered by caution because the last time he did this, the network pulled a bait and switch. “Would these be solo projects or joint projects?”

Creswell chuckles. “The joint project was good for the cameras and the publicity. You and Marlowe have a great chemistry, and that helps us to promote the show. But for the other work, I think we’ll take your expertise.” His compliment makes me feel shittier than it should. “We’ll set up a meeting for when I return.”

We leave my office to find Henley and David laughing and chatting by the car. For a split-second, I remember how I felt when I saw them talking at the show. Jesus Christ, I’ve got to get a handle on my jealousy. It’s like a fucking goblin on my shoulder, clawing and clutching at me.

“We just need to get the emblem from the supplier in Milford, Connecticut,” Henley says to David. “He said he’d have it in by Saturday, then we’ll install it, and we should be good to go with this beauty.”

“I can head out there and pick it up,” I offer.

“I’ll join you,” she says, and my heart skips a beat. More time with her.

“Then join me after,” Creswell adds. “Come to my home for dinner. I live in Fairfield. Pick up the part and swing by, and we’ll have something to eat. Roger will be there, too.”

Ah, Roger must be his partner.

“Good old Roger,” David says with a chuckle.

“Count us in,” Henley says, and once they leave, she looks at me expectantly then spreads her arms wide. She squeals and punches her fists in the air. “They loved it. They absolutely loved it.”

This is a moment that calls for celebration, so I stride over to her, pick her up so her feet are above the ground, and hug the fuck out of her. “We did it, tiger.”

“I’m so happy they like it,” she says, her smile as wide as the sky as she ropes her hands around my neck. “Is that what he was talking to you about in your office? How much they like it?”

I set her down and try not to meet her eyes, when I lie with a yes. It’s close to the truth. “Yeah, he was telling me he liked how well we worked on it together.”

She narrows her eyes at me, as if she doubts me, and the guilt inside me deepens. Then she shrugs happily. “That’s great. I’m sure he figured since he asked you first that it only made sense to assure you how pleased he is.”

“Yeah. Exactly,” I say, each word like glass cutting my tongue.

If I tell her the truth, I could risk my business by revealing opportunities—ones she could try to pounce on. My business isn’t just me—it’s me and the guys I look out for, the bills I pay for them. Besides, a potential deal with Creswell isn’t real yet. Potential work is a minefield of risks and opportunities, and this is precisely why being with her is dangerous. If I tell her the truth, then John Smith Rides would know there’s work out there on the table. They could put forward a wildly appealing offer that convinces the network to pull this deal from me. After all, the Lambo was originally supposed to be a solo gig. Nothing is set in stone, so I need to remain a vault.

She checks the time on her phone. “See you at the Hudson later? I have some meetings, and then some guy called and wants to talk about customizing his Bugatti that already has everything,” she says, rolling her eyes at the request.

“Banker dude?”

“Yup.”

“I met with him the other day. He’s kind of a douche. Watch out.”

We’re fishing in the same pond. It’s not a big body of water at all, but it’s full of some big fish. And we’re going to keep bumping into each other with our reels and our hooks.

As I head downtown to shower and change then catch an Uber uptown to the Hudson, I imagine the street is littered with signs.

Slippery road.

Danger ahead.

Proceed with caution.

Then, when I see her in the class, I ignore them all.

34

“You look so fine in a fancy shirt,” Henley says, running a red fingernail down the buttons of my navy blue shirt. “And this is perfect for class.”

Shockingly, I’ve never taken a dance class, so I asked Google what to wear, and this is the result. Nice jeans and a dress shirt.

More importantly, Henley is impressed both with my clothes and that somehow I don’t suck as a dance partner. She doesn’t, either.

“You’re not terrible at all.”

She shrugs. “I’m a fast learner.”

It’s a beginner’s class, and I’m eminently grateful for that. I’m even more grateful that Henley wears a skirt, a little flouncy purple one that spins when I spin her, showing off her fishnet stockings. Her arms are bare, on display in a silky tank top.

“Break forward with the left foot. Rock back on the right,” the instructor tells us, and with intense concentration etched in her eyes, Henley moves in time to the music.

I do something that possibly could be called that, if one was generous.

“You’re doing great,” she says.

“You lie.”

She giggles as she threads her fingers tighter in mine. So far, I’ve learned that salsa isn’t one of those dances where you can just hold her waist and she ropes her arms around your neck. Nope. My right hand rests on her back, and my left hand is raised between us.

“Fine,” she says, sarcastically. “You’re doing great for a big, brutish, bearish guy who’s covered in motor oil all day.”

“Hey. Watch that mouth,” I say, staring at the red of her lips. “I’m completely adept at washing off all the grease that makes me dirty.” When I dip her, her hair waterfalls along her back. “And you like me dirty.”

When I pull her back up, she curls her fingers over my shoulder. “Dirty and clean.”

“And you wonder why I’m addicted to the tub and shower,” I say, as we move around in the midst of other couples. About a dozen pairs of dancers fill the room, and since none are Fred and Ginger, I don’t feel too bad about my lack of skills. Besides, I’m holding my own at the most important job—being her partner so that no one else can be.

“Is that your deep, dark secret, Max?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “An addiction to soap?”

“I have a whole array of them. Many flavors, many kinds.”

She makes a purring sound. “You lure me with hot chocolate. Now you try to entice me with yummy-smelling soaps.”