Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  “And when you parked it?” Livvy is on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped together.

  “Like a parachute landing softly on the grass. Perfect.”

  “It sounds incredible. I can’t wait to take her for a spin.”

  “Don’t wait, then. Go out right now and do it.” In a low voice I chant, “Do it, do it, do it.”

  Livvy giggles then fingers the strand of pearls around her neck. “I will soon. I promise. I have another delivery shortly, but then I’ll slide on my leather driving gloves, toss a silk scarf around my neck, and head out for a drive through the country.”

  “Don’t forget the Jackie O sunglasses to complete the look.”

  “I never forget the shades.” Livvy gestures to the white china teacup on the table. “Can I interest you in another white peony before I have Peter take you back to Manhattan?” she asks, mentioning her chauffeur. He drives a town car, not any of Livvy’s specialized rides.

  “I’m all good in the tea department.”

  “Don’t leave, then, without taking some treats. Ariel made the most delicious brownies for a party later.”

  A petite blond maid in a gray uniform with a lace apron returns to the living room to collect our cups.

  “Thank you so much, Ariel,” Livvy says to the young woman. “Would you pack up some brownies for Mr. Summers for the road?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Sweetwater. I will take care of that immediately.”

  Ariel turns to go, but as she reaches the doorway of the parlor, she casts her gaze back to me and offers a shy, sweet smile. Ariel nibbles on the corner of her lip, her eyes on mine.

  The unspoken offer is tempting, especially since I can’t deny I wouldn’t mind playing a little French-maid-with-a-feather-duster game with her. But fucking the client’s help is verboten. I look away from the cute little thing as she spins on her heel and heads off to the rest of the mansion.

  “Now, what shall we work on next time? You’ve customized an Aston Martin for me. You’ve put a new engine in my husband’s Mercedes, and now the Rolls.”

  I stroke my chin, thinking about what Livvy might crave. “Wouldn’t you say it’s about time we make a sports car for you?”

  “Actually,” she says slowly, as if she’s confessing, “I ordered one for my niece for a birthday present.”

  “Funny, I didn’t get the work order for that. I must have misplaced it.”

  Her shoulders sag. “I used someone else. Please forgive me.”

  I pretend to be offended, even though I’m a little bummed to have lost the job. “I’m devastated.”

  “I would have used you, but it was a last-minute thing. I wanted you to focus completely on Snow White, but I needed to get this one done, too.”

  The unmistakable rumble of a Corvette engine lands on my ears. I snap my head to glance at the living room window. A sporty red car cruises up the long driveway.

  Livvy squeals. “It’s here now. I’ll be right back.”

  She pops up at the speed of light and race-walks to the car before the driver can even cut the engine.

  I whistle under my breath. Damn. That sleek beauty looks better than any Corvette should have a right to look. I don’t even like Corvettes, but this one makes me want to get my hands on it, under it, and inside it.

  “I prepared a sandwich for you, too.”

  The voice is soft and eager. I tear my gaze away from the window and meet Ariel’s eyes. She crosses the room and hands me a small brown shopping bag—the classy kind, like my sister buys when she gives gifts to her friends.

  “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.

  The universe must want to test me somehow.

  But then, I wrap my hand around the neck of the Pappy Van Winkle, taking it from her. I remind myself this is not a test because I don’t even fucking like her. I take a long, thirsty drink, and I can taste her lipstick.

  Jesus Christ. I can taste her motherfucking lipstick.

  This isn’t a test. It’s a goddamn pop quiz I’m thoroughly unprepared for. Because her lipstick is unexpectedly delicious. I set the bottle back in its holder as the car slows at a light.

  “Is this how it’s going to be for the next two hours?” she asks.

  “You mean are we going to go to battle with a bottle of bourbon?”

  “Yes. Because I will go toe-to-toe with you.”

  I scoff, giving her a doubtful look. “Sweetheart, you’d never last. I’m twice your weight.”

  “But I’m three times as tough.”

  “You’re a fucking piece of work. Would you prefer to one-up me by showing up at a client’s house at the same time?” I smack my forehead. “Oh wait. You already did that.”

  She crosses her arms. “You think you’re the only game in town, don’t you?”

  “No. But I’d like to know what kind of game you’re playing.”

  She jerks her body away, giving me a you-must-be-crazy look. “When did it happen, Max?”

  “When did what happen, Henley?”

  “When did you go certifiably insane? Was it right after I left you, or a few years later?”

  I sigh heavily, wishing I hadn’t walked right into that one. I turn to face her. “Look, I think it’s bullshit and suspicious to see you at her house.”

  She twirls her finger in a circle by her ear. “And I think that’s paranoid and cuckoo. I can’t believe you think I’m playing a game because Livvy Sweetwater ordered a rush job on a custom car from me. I’m fast, I’m furious, and I’m awesome at souping up Corvettes. Deal with it, Summers.”

  I laugh as I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “Ah, that’s the Henley I remember. Always quick with a fiery comeback.”

  “What did you expect but a true answer? You’re ridiculous if you think having the same client means I’m out to steal your business.”

  She rolls her eyes and drags a hand through her chestnut brown hair. Stupidly, I follow her gesture, wondering for a moment what her hair feels like.

  Like straw.

  Her hair feels like straw.

  Her lips taste like wilted lettuce.

  Her breath smells like a dog’s.

  Shit, I like dogs.

  But, I remind myself, I don’t want to kiss dogs, and I definitely don’t want to kiss Henley.

  “I think it’s fucking fishy,” I say.

  “Look, Summers. Here’s the deal. You were the king of the car business when I worked under you.”

  Under you.

  Don’t plant those images in my head.

  My dick flirts with treason once more.

  “Still the king,” I point out.

  “And now there’s a queen in town. You’re going to have to deal with the fact that you have some serious competition. I make hotter sports cars than you do. You might be a god at restoring a Rolls, or making an Aston sing, and I’m sure your neon-blue souped-up Ferrari is the baddest ride ever.”

  I cock my head. “How’d you know I did that car in blue?”

  “I looked you up. You think it’s easy being a woman in this business? It’s not. I need to stay ten steps ahead, and I do it by knowing the business cold. I researched you, studied you, and understood you when I came back to town. You do an amazing job on nearly everything.” I can’t help it—I straighten my shoulders a bit from the compliment, loving it, even from her. “But I happen to be amazing at making sports cars, and Livvy wanted one for her wild niece, so she called this wild girl.” Henley punctuates her speech by tapping her chest.

  “Wild,” I say, deadpan. “That sounds right, considering how you got a little wild with a client’s car the last time we worked together, doing things he didn’t ask for.”

  The look on her face tells me she’s taken aback. “I thought it was what he wanted,” she says with less intensity and more . . . worry. “I told you that.”

  I shake my head. I won’t give in to her. “You did what you wanted. Plain and simple. You nearly cost me business.”

  “You nearly cost me a career.”

  I fix her with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding stare. “Your career seems just fine. Speaking of, what’s the name of this shop you opened?”

  “I don’t have my own shop yet. I’m the lead builder at John Smith Rides.”

  I groan. That name again. First, Sam dates a mechanic there. Now, Henley is on the fucking payroll of my rival, too.

  I grab the bottle, and once more I don’t bother with a glass. Nope. I might as well drink the whole thing down. This woman is goin
g to be a thorn in my side.

  After fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence while the car rolls along the highway, Henley turns to me. “How about we try to make this ride enjoyable?”

  “Let bygones be bygones? Or did you want to play cards?”

  “How about charades?”

  I’m walking into something dangerous. But I do it anyway. “What kind of charades?”

  “It’s a question I’m asking.”

  “All right. Have at it.”

  She adopts a perky little smile then leans forward, popping her butt off the seat. I remind myself that it’s not a perfect ass she possesses. Like her straw hair and rubbery lips, her butt is flat and boring, not a round, heart-shaped dream ass ripe for spanking. She waggles a pretend object in her hand, almost as if she’s cleaning. Dusting, perhaps. Next, she clasps her hand to her mouth in a Betty Boop move. “Oops,” she mouths.

  “You’re allowed to do that in charades?”

  She doesn’t answer. She sits back down on the seat and grabs her phone from a small purse. She points to me and shrugs as if she’s asking a question.

  “Did I?” I suggest.

  She nods then opens her palm a few times as if she’s grabbing something.

  “Grab?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Get?”

  She taps her nose.

  “Did I get . . .?”

  Henley does the dusting again then points to her phone.

  Yep. Walked into it and then some. I drag a hand over my face and shake my head. “No, I did not get the maid’s number. I wouldn’t do that to a client.”

  “But she was hot, right?”

  I turn and stare at her. “Why are you asking?”

  “She was a babe. It’s a fact. I was just curious if you got her number since she sure seemed to like you, too.”

  I point to the guy behind the glass. “You want Peter’s number?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think he likes piña coladas and making love in the rain?”

  For a flash second, a burst of wildfire curls through my veins. It feels like white-hot jealousy. Which is ridiculous since she’s not making love to Peter.