Joy Ride

“Thanks. Appreciate that.”

“It’s turkey with avocado and artichoke. It’s my specialty,” she says, her lips curving into a smile. “I hope you like it. I have lots of specialties.”

Yeah, and I might like to get to know them, but that can’t happen.

“I’ll dig in on the ride back to the city.”

The snap of the hood popping open catches my attention, and I peer outside again. I can’t help myself. No matter the make, no matter the model, when someone pops open the hood of a car, I have to look. I have to drop everything and check out the engine. It’s an affliction all car guys suffer from, but it’s one we never want to cure.

Must. Stare. At. Engine.

Livvy and the builder are obscured behind the hood, which gives me an even better view for ogling. Fifteen seconds later, I cross the driveway and walk up to the car.

“That’s a gorgeous 16-valve V-8 if I ever—”

My blood goes cold. It turns to an arctic chill as a brunette in combat boots, a short jean skirt, and a black T-shirt steps out from behind the open hood.

Her.

Henley’s deep brown eyes go wide as moons, and her red-lipsticked mouth parts. Then, she presses her lips together as if she’s holding in all the insults she wants to fling my way.

Livvy jumps in. “Max Summers, this is Henley Rose. She specializes in hot sports cars.”

“I bet,” I bite out. Why the hell is she here? Did she find out I worked with Livvy and snag the last-minute gig away from me before Livvy even gave me a shot at it?

“Henley, this is Max. He’s done my entire fleet.”

My one-time apprentice, who wasn’t fucking ready to leave on her own, arches an eyebrow. “Is that so? I bet he’s great at doing a whole fleet.”

I seethe inside from her off-hand comment. Look, when she worked for me, I never hit on her. But that doesn’t mean I was a choirboy in general. And that doesn’t mean I did a good job hiding my late-night activities. But I’ve learned over the years how to be discreet. Now no one but me needs to know how very much I enjoy variety in the ladies.

“He is great,” Livvy adds. “He’s simply been fantastic with all my automobiles.”

“He sure does know his way under the engine, doesn’t he?” Henley remarks. “I’m a huge fan of his work,” she adds.

Livvy nods enthusiastically. “This man knows how to make a car sing. How to make her purr. How to make her roar.”

Henley’s jaw drops, as if Livvy has said the most salacious things, and she kind of has. “Purr? Roar? Wow. He must have some serious skills.”

I can’t have Henley twisting shit around again. “I should take off. It was lovely spending time with you, Livvy.”

Livvy gestures from Henley to me. “I hope you don’t mind, but since I have Peter driving you back to the city, I thought he could take you both together.”

My shoulders tense. That is not going to happen. No how. No way.

“You know,” I say, giving my best casual, unperturbed shrug of a no-big-deal shoulder, even though this situation is the definition of a big fucking obstacle I must avoid like a video game character jumping across lava pits, “I really don’t mind taking the train. Let Henley have the car all to herself.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary at all,” Henley says in a far-too-chipper tone. If she’s even one-quarter as annoyed as I am, she’s excellent at hiding it. “I’m more than happy to take the train.”

A soft voice pipes in from behind me. “I can drive you, Max.”

I turn to see Ariel standing a few feet behind us. “My shift ends in thirty minutes, and I live in Queens.”

Henley clasps her hands to her chest. “What a kind offer. That’s so sweet, Max. Isn’t that so sweet?”

I clench my teeth. I’m not sure which is the more dangerous lion’s den right now.

But Livvy cuts in, shaking her head. “Ariel, you were going to stay later to help me prep for my niece’s party. I need you for a few extra hours.” Then she whispers to her maid, as if we can’t hear her discussing the tawdry subject of pay for the help, “Overtime.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” Ariel steps closer, lowers her head, and speaks softly in my ear. “I like the Rolls better.”

“Thanks,” I say as she returns to the house.

And when I turn back to Henley, the look in her eyes says she heard every word and is going to make me pay for them. Time to get the fuck out of the alligator pen. I point my thumb in the direction of the road. “Love the offer, Livvy. But I’m good with the train.”

Livvy shoots me an admonishing stare. “Don’t be silly, young man. Peter has errands to tend to in the city, and I’m more than happy to have him drive you back.”

“I’ll just catch an Uber to the station. I’m good,” I say, since I do not want to be stuck with that chick in a car for a two-hour drive.

Livvy wags a finger at me. “I insist. We have cheese, crackers, and champagne in the town car. Grapes, too. Have a snack. Relax and enjoy the drive. Now, let me ogle this Corvette, then you’ll be free to go.”

When a client like Livvy says how it’s going to be, you don’t tell her no. Already Livvy has booked business with the new competition. I need to make damn sure the door to Henley closes, and that I’m the one who wins the commission for Livvy’s next sports car.

“Your generosity is greatly appreciated,” I say.

She lowers her voice. “There’s some Pappy Van Winkle in the town car.”

“I’m going to need that,” I say, but mine’s not the only voice.

Henley says the same words at the same damn time.

And that’s how, fifteen minutes later, I’m sliding after her into the backseat of a sleek, sexy town car.

7

I grab the bottle and sink into the buttery leather seat as Peter swings out of the driveway. There’s a partition window and it’s rolled up. I fucking wish this was a limo and Henley and I had some goddamn space between us. She’s right next to me, and I can smell her perfume. It’s soft and floral, like spring apple flowers.

Why can’t I have a stuffy nose today?

These damn nostrils work too well for my own good. She smells amazing.

I unscrew the cap.

“You’re going to just drink that straight from the bottle?” Henley fires off.

“I’m so sorry. Will that offend you?” I bring the opening to my lips and take a swallow, savoring the delicious burn of the whiskey as the car picks up speed.

She rolls her eyes. Her pretty, soulful, chocolate-colored eyes. “I’m sure you think you just marked that bottle and I won’t touch it now. But you’re wrong.”

She leans into me, stretches an arm over my chest, and snags the bottle from my hand. Nothing else registers for a few seconds, because her tits brush against my bicep.

Not fair.

Not fucking fair.

I might be a tough bastard, but this is not in the rulebook. This is foul play, and my dick likes it. What does he know? He’s Benedict Arnold right now. Especially since he seems to be controlling my eyes, because I can’t look away from this girl as she brings the bottle to her lips and knocks back a swallow.

I stare at the way her throat moves. She winces for a split-second while she pulls the bottle away.

She licks her lips. The little tip of her tongue runs along her top lip like she’s starring in a slow-mo commercial. I can see the next frame perfectly. She’s the beauty on the hood of a car. Sprawling sexily across it. Batting those come-hither eyes.