Joy Ride
Her apology intrigues me. The light changes, so I hit the gas, say thank you for the gift, and let her continue. She taps the outline of the white and tan bath bomb. “This is Cedar Grove. So it’s super manly. And the other is Peach Dreams.”
“So, super manly, too?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Peach Dreams just smells pretty.” She smiles and brushes some loose strands of hair from her face.
“Want me to put the top up?”
“Not until hail is shrieking from the sky. Besides, that’s what this is for,” she says, running a hand down the scarf. She relaxes into the seat as I turn onto the FDR Drive. She sets the gift in the console.
I glance at it briefly then return my eyes to the road. I can’t help but wonder if the gift means something. Two bath bombs. One masculine. One feminine. But as soon as those ridiculous thoughts land in my brain, I’m fucking embarrassed. This girl does not want romance from me, or mushy thoughts of coupledom. I don’t know what she wants. I push them into a far corner in my head then kick some dirt over them. She’s simply saying she’s sorry for cutting out early, not for dashing my hopes for a sleepover, with homemade pancakes for breakfast as a bonus—and I make kickass blueberry pancakes. Besides, I ought to know better. I need to stick to my own guideline—don’t sleep with the enemy.
Though, I’ve already crossed that line a few times. Better amend the rule to—don’t fall for the enemy.
I try my best to keep her at a distance. “Thank you for the gift, but you don’t have to say you’re sorry for anything.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You had business to take care of. Did you get everything squared away?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pained look on her face. “I think so,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it. She brings her fingers to her mouth, as if she’s about to bite her nail. She stops herself, placing her hands in her lap.
Out of instinct, I set a hand on her thigh. “Hey, are you okay?”
She nods, and it’s the tough kind. The I’ll be fine style. “I will be.”
“Anything . . . you want to talk about? Even though it would be weird for us to discuss business, I guess.”
“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to avoid?”
“That probably means I shouldn’t ask you about the Bugatti guy, either.”
She thrusts her arms in the air, her mood shifting instantly. “Bulletproof glass. I’m survivalizing his car.”
I crack up from her enthusiasm. “For real?”
She nods as we cruise along the FDR, the wind from the open top whipping past us, a lone gray cloud hanging low in the sky. “Can you believe it? I signed the deal yesterday, and he brought the car in this morning. I was at the shop early to meet him, and I’m starting the work on Monday. He’s a total zombie freak.”
That surprises the hell out of me. “Never would have pegged him for a zombie guy. He seemed pure Wall Street all the way.”
“I thought so, too, but then I noticed this,” she says, tapping her wrist. It’s bare and slender and pretty. And holy fuck, did I just actually think a woman’s wrist was sexy?
“What about his wrist?”
“His watch. It’s the kind zombie survivalists wear. It’s a Casio model that’s popular among that crowd.”
“No fucking kidding? I remember that watch. I figured he repped the company or something. Never occurred to me it meant he was a Walking Dead believer.”
“As soon as I saw it, I knew what would get him fired up. I told him his Bugatti was already fast enough to get out of a horde of brain-eaters in less than three seconds, but had his Veyron been outfitted to withstand the walking dead in the apocalypse? Hook. Line. Sinker,” she says, then mimes reeling him in.
For a moment, I wait for the goblin on my shoulder to reappear in a new form. To rage with work jealousy over her winning a potential deal that I not only didn’t get—I didn’t know how to win. But the green-eyed monster never rears his head. And that’s not only because I didn’t want to work with the guy. It’s because she deserves this deal. She spotted the way in that I didn’t see.
I’ve got to give her credit for sealing the deal. “Good for you, Henley. I’m impressed. And I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you. I’m proud of me, too,” she says, and there’s a lovely happiness in her tone that warms my heart. She looks at me, and her eyes go wide.
“What’s wrong?” I say, flicking my gaze back to the concrete ribbon in front of us as we head onto I-95. On the horizon, the sky darkens.
“We just discussed business, and you didn’t flip out and I didn’t flip out.”
“Does that mean we’re not enemies anymore?”
When she kicks off one heel and sets her foot on the dashboard, she says, “You weren’t my enemy last night.”
“On the dance floor?”
She shakes her head. “When I got home,” she says, and her voice takes on a softer edge. “That’s why I’m sorry I had to leave early.”
And color me even more intrigued. “What did you do when you were back at your place?”
37
She doesn’t say a word. Instead, as we cruise along the highway, she tugs at the hem of her dress. My fingers grip the wheel tighter as I watch both the road and her.
Her right hand dances along her calf, gently stroking her skin. I breathe harder. That hand. Those legs. She travels up to her knees, revealing more of her flesh. A noise echoes from my throat. The purple fabric rises higher, over her knees, up her thighs, each second making the temperature in me tick up. The heat shoots one thousand degrees as her skirt reaches her waist.
She wears pink panties. So simple. So sexy. “Once I was in my apartment, I did . . . this,” she says as she drags her finger across the panel between her legs.
I groan as she tugs the skirt back down. I will my focus to the critical task at hand—driving. “So those busy little fingers kept you entertained?”
“Very entertained.”
“Bed, couch, or shower?”
“Bed. I have a flowered bedspread, in case you were wondering what my place looks like. It’s a deep rose with vines and petals along the edges, and I have more pillows than the sky has stars,” she says, as she fills in the missing paint by numbers. I can see her place so clearly now.
“I bet you look like a goddess on it. A dirty goddess with your fingers in your panties.”
“My hand was between my legs in seconds. I thought of what I was missing last night.”
“What were you missing?”
“Your mouth on me. Everywhere on me,” she says, her voice breathy. “All over my body.”
“That can be arranged.”
She drags her fingers along her neck. “My neck.” Then over her chest. “My breasts.” She slows at her belly. “My stomach.”
I grip the wheel so damn hard I’m surprised I don’t rip it out of the dashboard. “We can conduct a reenactment of this anytime you want. Just say the word.”
She slides her hand down her thigh, over her skirt. “Between my legs.”
“I can pull over right now.”
She seems lost in the memory. “That’s where I wanted to be last night. That’s where I wished I was. I wanted my fantasy to be real so badly.”