“Are you this dramatic? I’m keeping you on. I’m just not moving you up yet. You’re not ready. It’s that simple.”
“This dramatic? Would you call a man dramatic?”
“If he was making a scene like you are, you bet I would.”
That was when she’d hurled her insult, like an angry goddess on a mountaintop flinging a ball of fire from her bare hands. “You’re nothing but a cruel bastard.”
That shit was not going to fly.
I drew a deep breath, sucking in all my anger. “Maybe I am. But this cruel bastard just fired you,” I said as calmly as I possibly could.
Her jaw dropped, and her brown eyes flooded with hurt. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I turned away, stalking back to the office. I slammed my door and that was when I fumed—at her, but mostly at myself for letting it get to the point where we both were driven by anger.
I’d dragged a hand roughly through my hair, my jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing so hard in my neck I could feel it beat. What the fuck was wrong with me? I’d just fired the most talented person I’d ever worked with. How the hell did she get so far under my skin?
I reminded myself again and again that no matter how skilled she was, nobody talked to me that way. I was the boss, and that was how it was going to be. The woman came to me to learn, and she was going to learn an important lesson. She didn’t get to say whatever she wanted, no matter how pissed she was.
I would walk back out there, calmly explain why I was letting her go, wish her well, and encourage her to get a handle on that mile-wide stubborn streak.
I turned the knob to return to the garage and found she was already gone.
10
Whatever bad juju is between us, I need to set it aside. I was younger then and more hotheaded. I’d like to think I’m smarter now, though playing games with her phone in the backseat of the town car might suggest otherwise. That’s all the more reason for me to man up and say I’m sorry.
I draw a deep breath as I turn the corner.
When I reach the garage of John Smith Rides, I half wish I’d snagged that cab to anyplace else, while the other half of me takes a mental snapshot of God’s most perfect union—woman and car.
Wearing a little black skirt, Henley is inspecting the hood of a cherry-red Alfa Romeo Spider.
I’m not sure which sight makes me harder—her or the car. Both are giving off seriously sinful come-hither vibes. But when my eyes roam down Henley’s body to her shoes, I decide girl trumps car, because she wears dark red heels.
Fucking heels.
Who does that? Who fucking does that?
Someone like her, that’s who.
Mind control. That’s what I need. The most intense mental trickery possible.
She smells like cat pee. Her breath reeks of rotten eggs. Her strands of hair form poisonous snakes.
She’s a slithery, stinky Medusa.
I zero in on that image, letting it fuel me to enter Medusa’s lair.
As I walk to her, I notice for the first time she’s standing next to a guy, a younger dude, maybe in his early twenties. I didn’t see him at first, but how could I be expected to, given the twin sights vying for ownership of my King of Pleasure soul? Another woman is here, too. A petite blonde with her hair in a ponytail. I bet that’s Karen.
Henley sets down the rag and brushes one hand against the other. Her back is still to me. “Tomorrow we’ll polish the interior, and we should be good to go,” she says to the baby-faced guy.
“Sounds like a plan, Ms. Marlowe.”
She cocks her head. “Mark,” she chides gently, “for the twentieth time, call me Henley.”
“Just say it, Mark. You can do it,” Karen says with a smirk, ribbing him. “Henley.”
“Henley,” he says, then shakes his head like the word feels awkward on his tongue.
The guy makes eye contact with me, raising his chin and nodding a hello. “Ms. Marlowe . . . I mean, Henley. Max Summers is here.”
Henley’s shoulders square, as if a dose of adrenaline surges through her, powering up her Fight Club instincts—the ones that tell her to pummel me.
She spins around. Her lips are a razor-thin line, and her brown eyes take aim at me. Rat-a-tat-tat. Gunfire’s coming now. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the king of Manhattan’s custom car business.”
Her expression morphs to a gregarious grin, as if we’re old buddies. She closes the distance between us and extends her hand. I can tell she’s being somewhat civilized for the sake of her mechanics, and it impresses me as a business owner. I have to give it to her that she can rein in her distaste.
I take her hand, and then she squeezes the ever-loving fuck out of my palm, crunching her fingers over mine. I wince instantly and nearly emit an ouch. But I’ve still got my man card on me, so I suck it up. I will not say ouch. I will not say ouch. I will not say ouch. Ever. Her evil eyes light up, twinkling with mischief as she reads me right. I had no idea she was so strong or could catch me off guard so quickly in a handshake squeeze-play.
“Girls just wanna have fun,” she mouths to me. Then out loud, so her mechanics can hear I presume, she says, “How the hell are you, Mr. Summers?” She drops my hand. I want to shake it off. I don’t.
“I’m well. How are you, Ms. Marlowe?” Two can play at the formal name game.
“I’m fantastic.” She snaps her gaze to the young guy, as well as to the blonde. “Mark and Karen, I have to head to my meeting. Can you two close up?”
“Absolutely,” Karen says with a quick nod, and heads to the tool sets at the far end of the garage.
“I’ll be right back,” Henley says, then steps closer and whispers, “I can’t wait to hear you grovel.”
How the fuck does she know I’m here to grovel? But when I look down at the bakery bag in my hand, I suppose my mission must be apparent. Damn, this woman can read clues like nobody’s business. She heads into a small office.
“Hey man,” Mark says, nodding at me. “Love your work. I’m a big fan.”
“Appreciate that.” I gesture to the red beauty. “You’re doing a great job on this Spider.”
His blue eyes light up, and he proceeds to rattle off a few high-level details of the build. No trade secrets, just the basics of the customization.
“Damn,” I say with an appreciative whistle. “You do nice work, Mark.”
He beams. “Thanks.” He shuffles his feet then clears his throat. “I got my degree a couple years ago. I had a partial scholarship, thanks to you.”
“Yeah? That’s fucking awesome. You clearly deserved it.”
I hold up a fist for knocking, and he reciprocates. He stares at his fist for a moment. “Thanks to you. It helped me so much. I want to run my own shop someday.”
“Do it. You can absolutely do it.”
A smile as wide as Central Park fills his face, a reminder of one of the things I love best—giving young guys and gals a chance to realize their dreams. So fucking worth it.
The clack of heels across the concrete halts the conversation. Our eyes turn to the woman again, and I almost want to say to Mark, “Good luck working with that kind of distraction all day.”
But that would be sexist and douchey. Not to mention, weak as fuck.
Men should be able to deal with beautiful women at work. With any women. They need to handle the presence of the opposite sex without making lewd comments to the lady, or to each other when she’s not around. If a man can’t do that, he’s not a man. Hell, when Henley worked for me, I learned to seal up every last ounce of lust I felt for her in a Ziploc bag and make sure I never let on to a soul.
No way will I reveal my hand now, either, even though she cleans up well. There’s not a streak of grease on her, and her chestnut mane looks like she just stepped out of a salon. She’s a pristine, confident businesswoman. With a twist. She’s changed from a work shirt to a T-shirt—a dressy, quirky kind, with a V-neck. It says Rainbows and Unicorns for the Win under a cartoonish image of
the mythical creature breathing a rainbow.
“Cute shirt,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says, glancing down. “It’s ironic.”
“Figured as much.”
A big booming voice calls out my name. I turn on my heel to see the silver-haired and mustached John Smith. “How the hell are you, Max?” he calls as he strides across the garage.
“Excellent, as always,” I say. Even though we’re rivals, we’re civil. You know, since we’re not dickheads. Besides, every now and then you wind up working together somehow for a client, or sharing one, like Livvy. “Nice work on the Spider. I was just telling Mark.”
When John reaches me, he holds out his hand to shake. “My team does great work. So does my top builder,” he says, tipping his head proudly to Henley.
I glance at her. “She’s fantastic.”
She smiles at both of us. “Thank you.”
“And I’m glad she came back to town to work with me rather than you,” he says, punching my shoulder and giving me an I won look. Fair enough, I suppose, even though we weren’t fighting for her.
“You’re lucky to have her.”
He pats Henley on the shoulder. “I absolutely am. She’s a keeper. See you around,” he says, then he turns back to chat with Mark while Henley and I leave the shop.
Once we’re out on the sidewalk, I say, “He sure likes your work.”
“He has good taste,” Henley says.
I point at her shoes. “Do you actually work on cars in heels?”
She rolls her eyes as she slides her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “No. I just put them on. I’m heading to a meeting. We can walk and talk.”
“Shouldn’t that be walk and grovel?” I suggest as we head off.
She arches an eyebrow. “Yes. Feel free to begin.”
I’m about to launch into my apology when I’m struck with a realization—we just exchanged several sentences without slinging invectives at each other. “Do you realize we didn’t insult each other for the last fifteen seconds? Must be a new record for us.”
“Hmm. It must be. Let’s break it right now,” she says as we walk in step along the side street.
But I don’t take the bait. “I got you something.”
“Ooh, wait.” She stops in her tracks, grabs her phone from her purse, and pretends to click a button. “It’s apology time. I need to record this moment for all posterity.”
I roll my eyes. “Forget what I said about the record.” I wave a hand dismissively. “We’ll just smash through it again, especially since you make me want to take back the apology.”
“Fine. Say you’re sorry for being a dick in the car. I didn’t mean to stop you. I simply wanted to preserve history in the making.”
I ignore her comment and show her the bag from Josie’s bakery. “It’s monkey bread. My friend Josie runs a bakery and makes the best everything in the world, including monkey bread.” Her brown eyes soften. They’re a lighter shade now, and reveal a hint of vulnerability. “I’m sorry I was a dick with your phone. I shouldn’t have done that. Phones are private.”
“They are,” she says, without any vinegar in her tone. Just honey. “And thank you for saying that.”
“Take the bread. It’s been known to bring about world peace.”
She peeks into the bag and her eyes widen with delight. I swear, they fucking sparkle when she sees the gooey, caramel, cinnamony-sweet treat stuffed with all the goodness in the baking universe. “Is it poisoned?” she asks, but this time she sounds playful.
It’s a welcome change from the vitriol I usually hear, and the vitriol I usually give her back. Keeping my tone light, too, I say, “With arsenic.”
She lowers her nose to the bag and sniffs. “I don’t smell any poison.”
“Arsenic is odorless, sweetheart,” I tell her. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I grab it and hit ignore before I even see who’s calling. I want to be in this moment.
When she raises her face, she hands me the bag. “You better eat it first, then.”
I grab a hunk of the bread and stuff it in my mouth. I chew and swallow in the most exaggerated fashion possible. “See? Safe as can be.”
“Such a valiant taste-tester,” she says with a flirty purr. That sound thrums through my bones. “My turn.”
I rip off a smaller bite and hand it to her. But she doesn’t open her palm. She steps closer to me so she’s inches away. Then, she opens her mouth, and she looks like heavenly sin.
Those red lips form the loveliest O, and just like I do with some cars, I experience a kind of insta-love. It’s official—my cock is head over fucking heels in love with her gorgeous mouth and thinking all sorts of filthy thoughts about how to fit inside it, the dirty bastard.
Gently, I put the bread in her mouth, my fingertips brushing over her lips. That slight touch sends electricity straight to my dick, reaffirming his obsession. She chews seductively, murmuring in delight, then swallows. How does she fucking do it? She eats sexily. She walks sexily. She grabs her phone sexily. She probably puts ketchup on fries like it’s a sensual experience. Suddenly, I want to watch her do mundane things—wash laundry, open a jar of mustard, unlock her door—and determine if every single thing she does is a turn-on.
I’d file my report with the Man Council, informing them that I’ve indeed discovered the holy grail of sex appeal—Henley Rose Marlowe. No matter how hard I try to pretend she has the face of a groundhog, she defies me simply by being . . . her.
“You were right,” she says softly.
I blink, trying to remember what I was right about. “I was?”
The corners of her lips curve up. “Yes. I feel so peaceful.” She steps closer to me. “All because of the monkey bread.”
Those lips dust my cheek and she whispers, “Thank you,” in my ear. Her voice is everywhere, sending a sizzling charge across each inch of my skin. As if I’m buzzed. I’m not really sure where I am right now. I don’t know if I’m dreaming, or floating, or fantasizing. This might very well be a mirage, or the world has turned inside out, because Henley is not only being civilized, she’s being intensely flirty. It’s disarming.
That’s when I snap to it.
Disarming. Exactly. She’s the competition. That’s her trick. She probably wants to snag Livvy’s next sports car from under me. She’s Delilah trying to cut off Samson’s hair with her flirty ways. I can’t forget we’re rivals, and monkey bread isn’t a peace treaty; it’s a panacea.
The cold war hasn’t ended.
I back away from her. “Glad you like it. I should go,” I say, gesturing to the sidewalk. I’m meeting David a few blocks from here at a bar.
She points at the pavement, too, and blinks as if she’s reconnecting to earth. I furrow my brow, wondering. Did she feel that spark that was more than a spark?
Then I decide it’s high time to check myself into a sanatorium. Maybe even ask Chase to perform that lobotomy. I’m not the kind of guy who gets fireworks or butterflies or feels as if his feet don’t touch the ground over a woman. Any woman. And especially not this dangerous woman who has the same damn clients I have, and who’s hungry for more. I’m the King of Pleasure, the master of one-night stands.
Fine. I haven’t had one in a few weeks, since well before before I ran into Henley at the car show. Who cares?
“I should go, too,” she says softly.
That soft side she’s showing me today is one more reason why I can’t let myself be fooled. It has to be an act. I take a step in the direction I’m heading. She does the same. Then another. And one more. Soon, we’re at the end of the block, waiting to cross the avenue. “Just heading to a meeting,” I say to fill the awkward silence.
“Same here.”
We cross the street together and walk along the next block.
By the time we arrive at Eighth Avenue, neither one of us utters a word. We both just stare at each other, our eyes saying the same thing—you’ve got to be kidding me.
“Ironi
c, isn’t it? Heading in the same direction.”
“The spitting definition of irony,” she quips.
As a bus rumbles to a stop when the light turns red, we cross and then we both turn right.
She gives me a side-eyed stare. “You have permission to stop following me now.”
I scoff. “How do I know you’re not following me?”
“As if I’d follow you.”
Then she turns into Thalia’s.
No fucking way.
I groan in annoyance and follow her.
In the doorway, all that sweetness from the monkey bread has evaporated. “Seriously. Enough’s enough,” she says. “I truly appreciate the apology and the sentiment, but we’re all good, and it’s time to move on, Max. I need to focus on my meeting.”
She points to a table in the corner.
“And I need to focus on mine,” I say, gesturing to the same goddamn spot.
David Winters rises, walks over, flashes a big buoyant grin, and says to us, “Join me.”
11
There are enemies and there are enemies. Even though David set this meeting up, I can’t wrap my head around him wearing the black robe of doom.
Ergo, Henley must be the bad guy.
She’s the Joker to my Batman, the Tom to my Jerry, the Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner.
I stare at her, fumes surely coming from my nostrils, red clouds billowing from my eyes. How the hell could she ambush me like this? This is worse than an anvil on the head or a tail caught in a mousetrap.
Though, in all fairness, those predicaments do sound quite unpleasant. But judging from the shock on her face, she didn’t see this coming. And that makes no sense, either.
I follow David and Wile E. Coyote to a quiet corner of Thalia’s. It’s a lounge-type place, with lots of chichi appetizers and fancily named cocktails. The chairs here are low and plush, in a shade of burgundy that matches Henley’s shoes. Hey, I know my colors. No self-respecting car guy can get away without knowing a range of shades—royal purple, emerald green, sapphire blue, midnight black. Or even lime gold.
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