Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  Henley glances at me as we cross the wood floor, David in front of us. “Did you know about this?” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth.

  “No way,” I bite out.

  We sit.

  “Please accept my apologies that I didn’t alert both of you earlier about the change in number at this meeting,” David says to both of us. He turns to me, looking over the edge of his wire rims. “I tried calling you a few minutes ago but it went to voicemail.”

  His must have been the call I ignored. David looks at Henley. “And so did yours.”

  “I had mine on silent,” she says.

  “Well, phones are the devil, but here we all are, and I’m thrilled.” David clasps his hands together. “I would introduce you, but I have a hunch you already know each other from the car show. And, I’ve got to be honest, once I saw the two of you interact, I couldn’t resist. You really have a sort of fiery chemistry.”

  Fiery chemistry? Is he insane? More like acid. That’s what we have.

  “It gave me a great idea for the show, but I needed to work out the details, and now I have. I started noodling on this concept after our phone conversation last night, Henley.”

  Phone call? Last night? What the hell? I scrunch my forehead. “You two came up with an idea for the show?”

  “I’ve asked Henley to play a role on the show, building the car as well. And bear with me, Max. I know we already brought you on, and we plan to honor that commitment and pay you the same fee.” He pauses, takes a breath, and squares his shoulder. “We want you two to build the hero’s car together.”

  Shock ripples through me. My jaw clangs to the floor, but I snap it back in place before they can see. My gut twists, and I feel as if I’ve been fucking played. This was my gig. My job. And here she is again, sneaking into my business.

  “That so?” I ask in the most casual voice I can muster. Never let them see you sweat.

  “Together?” Henley croaks out. She points to me, then to her. “You want us to work on the car together?”

  I jerk my head. She seems as perplexed as I am. But isn’t she in on it?

  David nods enthusiastically. “I know this might seem last minute and topsy-turvy. But bear with me. That’s sometimes how the TV business goes.” He laughs in a self-deprecating fashion as he mimes tugging a light switch on. “New ideas pop into your head and you need to move on them lickety-split.” He centers his attention on Henley. “When I first called you last night, I thought we might have you spruce up our heroine’s car on the show, but the automaker wants to do that one all by itself. Since they’re a sponsor, we said yes. But I remembered how well the two of you got along, and I thought, not only would it be great for the web promos we want for the car, but that kind of connection”—he threads his fingers together—“can make for a great car.”

  My brain goes haywire. All gray matter short-circuits. Is he for real? I scratch my head. “You think so?”

  “We love both your work. You’re the top two builders in Manhattan, and you make beautiful cars. Max, you bring unparalleled expertise and experience, and Henley, you bring a certain energy that we honestly think will help us win a female audience for this show. Add in the way you two seemed to connect, and it’s a match made in TV heaven.” He sheepishly adds, “I sometimes fancy myself a casting director. In any case, we think it’ll attract even more viewers if we have you two working on our hero’s Lamborghini together.”

  And that’s when his pitch clicks. Instantly, I hate how much sense he makes. I despise that my business side wants to agree with him. Because the trouble ahead sign flashing in front of me indicates I should run the other way . . . from Henley. But that’s not what I’m going to do.

  “I’m flattered,” Henley says with a bright smile, setting her hand on the tribal band on my arm. I flinch for a split-second because I wasn’t expecting the contact. She squeezes my bicep. Well, she tries. She can barely get her hand one third of the way around it. “Especially since Max is so very talented.”

  “And so are you,” I manage to say, since I can’t let her look better than me to the client. Can’t let her appear more complimentary.

  She meets my eyes, tsk-tsking me. “I mean it. If you’d have asked me who I wanted to build a car with, my dream co-builder, there’s no question. I’d say this guy. Right here.”

  “Aw shucks. That’s so sweet. And you know,” I say, patting her hand then squeezing it, too. The monkey bread détente has ended. No more peace. Just pretending we dig each other like crackers dig cheese. “I’d say the same about you, Henley.”

  The only thing missing from this suck-up moment is the pookie nickname.

  David eats it up, grinning delightedly. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says, utterly enchanted with his matchmaking skills. He leans across the table, clasps one hand on my outside shoulder, the other on hers, and simply marvels at this two-headed hellfire demon he’s created. “That’s what I want. That kind of magic. It’s going to be beautiful.”

  He lets go and drops back in the plush chair. “Let me tell you more about the plan. We want you to work on the customization for the Lamborghini Miura from the ground up. Conceive it. Shape it. Blueprint it. You’ll need to work together every step of the way to plot each detail and then make it happen.”

  I get a feeling in my chest. That fire. That desire, just like I felt in his office. Like Indiana Jones when he first spotted the golden idol in the temple in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’m sure Harrison Ford’s fingers itched to touch it. His brain whirred trying to devise a path to it. I want this gig even more than I did when David first offered it to me.

  Do I want to build with her? Hell fucking no.

  But I can’t blow this chance just because she drives me crazy. I flash back to Mark and his compliments. To Mike and how far he’s come. To all the guys and gals I’ve helped in this business. I might have half a mind to walk right out of here because this feels like a bait and switch, but the part of me that won’t back down from a challenge keeps my ass in the seat.

  Henley lifts a finger. “Can you excuse me for just one little second? I need to go to the little girls’ room.”

  “Of course,” David says, gesturing in the direction of the restrooms.

  I glance at her furtively as she moves through the crowd. She dips a hand into her purse and grabs her phone. Who’s she going to call in the ladies’ room?

  Out of nowhere, that red-hot jealousy that flicked in me at the car show roars again. It burns more brightly as I picture her calling her boyfriend.

  Make that white-hot envy.

  12

  Henley’s To-Do List

  * * *

  —Thank Jay for that amazing advice on the fly.

  * * *

  —Rein in the holy effing you-know-what look on my face . . . even though this is such a what-the-flippety-flip situation.

  * * *

  —Get down on my knees and thank my lucky stars for this opportunity.

  * * *

  —Call Olivia later so we can plan a girls’ night out to celebrate and dance.

  * * *

  —Side note: Find some sort of techniques (hypnosis, perhaps?) to stop thinking Max Summers is hot . . . How can someone be hot when he needles a gal so much?

  * * *

  —Ask lawyer to speed up paperwork because this could be huge.

  * * *

  —Keep mouth shut.

  13

  She returns from the restroom, stuffing her phone into her purse as she weaves her way through the early evening patrons—throngs of women in skinny jeans and heels holding cosmos and packs of men in tailored slacks and button-downs with cuffs rolled up.

  Who’s the lucky guy, I want to ask her.

  I mean, unlucky guy. Who’s the fucking unlucky bastard you just called? I feel sorry for any dude who has to put up with this firebrand. She must be the world’s worst girlfriend. I bet she wins awards for being a nag. For refusing to let her guy hang
out with his buds. For getting on his case about everything.

  She sits next to me, crossing her legs. My eyes drift to her thighs. I bet she shaved this morning.

  Holy shit.

  What is wrong with me?

  Must stop thinking of how those legs would feel hitched around my hips as I take her against the wall.

  I look away from them to see her expression is giddy. Her smile is so wide; her straight, white teeth are gleaming. Her brown eyes sparkle. Her cheeks are going to hurt if she keeps this up. I clench a fist under the table then grab my beer with my other hand. I bet her stupid boyfriend put her in this extra good mood. He probably praised her on the phone for pulling off this ruse behind my back then told her he’d congratulate her with the best sex of her life.

  And I nearly crush the glass.

  “I’m in,” Henley says.

  And naturally, so am I. “I absolutely am, too.”

  For the next half hour, I force all the anger and annoyance out of the way. We discuss details with David over cocktails. As he sets down his empty martini glass, he checks his watch and declares it’s time to take off for the theater. He tosses a Benjamin on the table and says good-bye.

  I swallow and push back my chair. Might as well hit the road. Go to the gym. Ride my bike with Chase. Then start sketching out kickass Lambo features.

  Henley slams her palm to my chest. “Do not even try to insinuate that I was aware of his plan, like you did about me getting Livvy as a client.”

  Guess I’m not leaving yet. “I wasn’t going to, but you brought it up. Did you know before this meeting what he was planning? Did you know he hired me then brought you on to share the work? Competing is one thing, but being underhanded is entirely another.”

  “I know that, and I know the difference. David called me a few days after the car show where I first saw you. I was busy on Livvy’s car and I needed to give it my full attention. I wanted it to be perfect for her. I didn’t want any distractions.” The way she says that gives me pause, like it’s her watchword. “I wasn’t able to see him until this meeting, but we had talked on the phone last night. I honestly didn’t know you’d be here. Max,” she adds, and her voice is stripped of the barbed wire it usually contains, “I had no clue he would play this kind of bizarre car-building matchmaker game.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “No clue?”

  She clasps her hands together, as if she’s imploring me. “No idea at all. That’s not how I do business. I wouldn’t try to pull the rug out from under you. I know better because you taught me better.”

  A small burst of pride surges in me. I loved teaching her. Loved the chance to share what I knew about our world. I’m glad some of it stuck with her. “Thanks for saying that.”

  “This is a huge opportunity for both of us. Let’s just focus on work and not on . . . whatever this is,” she says gesturing from her to me and back.

  But what is this between us exactly? Bad blood? Enemies? Something more? Hell if I know. But business—that I can do. I’ve dealt with unruly clients. I’ve handled suppliers who are late. I’ve juggled insane deadlines and parts that don’t fit and a million other things. I’m not just a businessman, I’m not just the front man—I’m a goddamn fucking mechanic.

  That’s what I need to be right now. A guy who fixes a problem.

  That’s why I’m surprised as hell when the next question out of my mouth isn’t “How should we start?” but “What did your boyfriend think of the opportunity?”

  “What?” She crinkles her nose and cocks her head.

  “You called someone when you went to the bathroom.” And that came out more defensively than I’d intended.

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “You think I have a boyfriend? And you’re totes jelly, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I scoff.

  She pokes my side. “Then why did you ask if I called him?” She holds up her thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “A teeny bit jelly? C’mon. Admit it. I won’t tell a soul.”

  That question was the dumbest one to ever come out of my mouth, and trust me, it’s had lots of competitors. But I can’t back down yet. “Because you were there so long.”

  “Max,” she whispers, as if she’s about to confess, “I have to tell you something. I have an addiction.”

  “To what?” I ask with a sigh.

  “To Pinterest. To DIY mason jar vase decorations with all sorts of flora and fauna. I got an alert that a new pussy-willow-themed jar had posted, and I could not resist. I have no self-control. That’s why I took my phone in there.” She pretends to break down and sob. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Yeah. I deserved that punking. “Your secret is safe with me. But how were the pussy willows?”

  She raises her face and laughs. “Soft and so pretty. Just like a—”

  I cut her off. “Anyway.”

  “I called my brother, Jay. I turn to him for advice a lot. He’s kind of like a mentor.”

  Ouch. That’s the role I was supposed to play with her. I should have been the one she called for advice. But instead, our work relationship is like a telephone line, snapped apart in a storm.

  “Also, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she adds, and I try not to let my stupid lips quirk in a grin, because I can’t stand how happy I am that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She waves at me, as if I’m a presentation on a game show. “But you . . . you must have plenty of women. You always did.”

  Briefly I think of Becca, the saleswoman, and Ariel, the maid, and I’m glad I can give a truthful answer when I say, “There’s no one.”

  Now she’s the one who seems to be fighting off a twitch of her lips, and that makes me want to move in closer to her, slide her hair off her shoulder, nibble on her earlobe . . .

  Hear her moan.

  The sexy smirk is gone as quickly as it came. Maybe I imagined it. Hell if I know if left is right anymore, let alone what a woman like Henley is thinking. I reach for my glass and take a drink. When I set it down, I aim for monkey bread peace once more. “Look, let’s just concentrate on the build. Doing the best work and kicking ass on the Lambo.”

  “Our car baby,” she coos. “We need to start making it.”

  “We can’t waste a second.”

  She smirks. “I’m ovulating tomorrow, so that might be a good time to get started on our little Lambo. Do you think the connecting rod will be well-lubricated enough?”

  I laugh. How the hell did we get from sabotage to dirty jokes? “The rod is always ready,” I say in a deep, rumbly voice.

  She drums her fingers on the table, her eyes hooking into mine. Her shoulder inches closer; she moves closer. “Then lubrication won’t be a problem at all.”

  I drag a hand through my dark hair, holding her gaze. Her eyes harbor a hint of naughty, and I like it. Who am I kidding? I fucking love her innuendos, even though I’ve no clue why she’d make them. The air between us is thick with our silence for a moment. I don’t look away, nor does she.

  “I bet you could get the engine to purr,” she says, breaking the silence. Her voice is a little husky this time. A little dirty.

  “I bet I could get the engine to purr so goddamn loudly,” I counter.

  She raises a dark eyebrow and runs her finger along the edge of her cocktail glass. “I have no doubt.” She brings the glass to her lips and finishes off the dregs of her mojito. Then, she’s all serious. “So where should we meet? We should start on neutral ground to hammer out the details. Not at one of our shops.”

  “Makes sense. So, you’re thinking Yankee Stadium?”

  “Ha. More like Bloomingdale’s.”

  “In the dressing room?” I toss back.

  “Hey, how many babies do you think were made in dressing rooms?”

  “In Bloomingdale’s? In New York City? Throughout the history of time?”

  “All of the above.”

  “Countless, tiger, countless.” And somehow we’re flirting again. “And Bloomingdale’s is a no-go.” />
  She taps her finger against her chin. “Maybe the M&M store. All the candy will help us be nice to each other.”

  I laugh. “Or the New York Public Library then, since we won’t be able to yell.”

  It’s her turn to laugh.

  Then, an idea strikes me, and I tell her my plan.

  Her eyes sparkle. “I like that. I’ve never been on a big boat before.”

  “Then we’ll pop your cherry tomorrow.”

  “Like a virgin no more.”

  Yeah, we’re still flirting. I almost have no idea why we keep doing this, except for the obvious — it feels really fucking good.

  14

  Henley’s To-Do List

  * * *

  —Meet with lawyer.

  * * *

  —Ask John if we can really pull this off.

  * * *

  —Research drivetrain on Lamborghini Miura. Love that car hard!

  * * *

  —Figure out why I hate Max so much.

  * * *

  —Then figure out why I also don’t hate him.

  * * *

  —Blow-dry hair in that new way, with the wavy curls . . . because . . . I know why. :)

  * * *

  —No!!

  * * *

  —Just no!

  * * *

  —He probably won’t even notice my hair.

  * * *