Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  My ears prick. “The only time what?”

  She swallows as if she’s chewed something hard and painful. “The only time . . . is now.”

  Her statement sounds off, as if she’s hiding something. But considering how long it took for her to fess up and tell me she danced at night, I’m not keen to push her on whether she once was involved with someone else in this business.

  She presses her hand against my chest, her fingertips outlining my ink. “I appreciate you keeping this quiet. And I probably sound ridiculous since we screwed in your shop. How can I say I want respect and then do that with you? But . . .”

  “But what?”

  She flashes a naughty little grin. “You were impossible to resist.”

  My chest is a sunburst. “Good. And clearly, I could say the same for you.”

  “But the point is still this. I want respect. I want to set an example, too, for the other women in this field, like Karen. I’ve worked hard to make it as a woman in a male-centric field. Getting my engineering degree was key. Getting a job with you when I graduated was another. You were the best, and I wanted to learn from the best. That’s why I pursued work with you. Remember when I tracked you down at the car show years ago?’’

  I nod, recalling the day I met her. I was showing off some new rides, and she marched up to me, told me about her college degree, flipped open the portfolio of cars she’d worked on during school, and the Camaro she restored for herself when she was a teenager. Then she said, “The next thing on my to-do list is landing a job as the apprentice to the top builder in the country. I’m a fast learner, and I’m not afraid to tackle any problem.”

  I hired her on the spot. “You were insistent.”

  “You asked me how I learned the trade, and you were one of the few people who didn’t assume I must have been raised by mechanics.”

  “I was impressed you learned on your own. You had fire in your belly. You had drive.”

  “And that’s why I work my butt off at everything. Even small things, like not swearing. I do that because I don’t want to pretend I’m one of the guys. I want to talk to my colleagues and coworkers like a professional.”

  I run my finger over her top lip. “I admire that, even though I do want to hear you say fuck someday.”

  “But Max, do you see what I mean?” She shoves my shoulder. “Being around you makes me stupid. I flirt with you, and I get naked in your bathroom, and then I come over and jump you.”

  “You do flirt. And you did get naked. But I definitely jumped you,” I say, correcting her.

  “How will anyone respect me in this business if I’m just the booth bitch who screws the hottest builder around?”

  I snort, for many reasons. “First, thank you for the compliment. Second, I presume you’re not going around and sleeping with every dude in the business.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Ha. Ha.”

  “Don’t judge yourself because we slept together. The fact that I’ve been dying to get you naked since I saw you again has nothing to do with my respect for your work. And third, you’re not a booth bitch. You make the damn cars. You’re the chick who makes a Corvette cool again. You’re the one who souped up a Camaro at age sixteen. And you’re the kickass gearhead who customized the beautiful red beast for Brick Wilson.” I tap her temple. “That’s where the respect comes from. What you do under the hood, not on the hood. And you’ve got that, Henley.”

  “Thank you,” she says, and I can hear the gratitude in her tone. I can tell it matters to her that I respect her talent and her abilities. She taps my chest. “But I didn’t build the red beast. We built the car together. I know that must have been hard for you. To give up control to someone who’s not at your level in the business.”

  “It was fine,” I say, because anything more would be a lie. I didn’t want to share the credit on the Lambo, but it is what it is, and I’ve had a good time working with her. “We’ve been a good team.”

  “What if I was at your level?” She brings her hands under her chin, and she looks vulnerable, innocent.

  I blink. “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t own my own shop yet. I’m still not at your level.”

  I clear my throat. “What would be different if you owned your own shop?”

  “Well, you say I’m your rival, but I’m still Aaron Rodgers to your Tom Brady.”

  I crack up, a deep laugh that takes root inside my chest and spreads across my body because she made a football joke of all things. I flop to my back and pull her into the crook of my arm. “Aaron, you are one fine-looking quarterback.”

  “And you have so many inches . . . I mean, rings.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think we’re Aaron and Tom, though.”

  “Who are we, then?”

  I flash back to Creswell’s comments at the first meeting. “Cybill and Bruce. Wait. You’ve probably never heard of them. They did this show called Moonlighting.”

  She smacks my chest. “I’m not that much younger than you.”

  “Six years,” I mutter.

  “I was twenty-one when you knew me before,” she muses.

  That’s a big part of the issue. Not the age difference. But that I knew her before. That I was wildly attracted to her then. I’ve wanted her since the day I hired her. I’ve been attracted to her ever since she entered my line of sight. It was instant and electric, and I tried desperately to snuff it out. I refused to be the boss who wanted to bang his apprentice, even though I was. The strategy? Resist. I did, white-knuckling it through every day of longing for her. I didn’t make a move because she was my employee, my apprentice, and my job was to teach her, not touch her.

  Now, I have touched her, and it’s astonishing the way we fit, the way she feels. I don’t know how that changes things in business, on the project, or in my life. I’d like to think we won’t lose focus.

  But that may be wishful thinking.

  I didn’t pick up on the seat measurement. She’s the one who went the extra mile and researched Brick’s actual height. Did wanting her cause me to miss that detail? Or would I have missed it no matter what? I don’t honestly know. All I know is when you mix business and pleasure, it’s pretty tough to say you’re all-business anymore.

  She worries about respect, and I worry about distraction. She’s moving up in her career, and I’m trying to maintain the pole position I’ve been lucky enough to achieve. This woman is her own brand of diversion because she’s the competition. Though we’re working on a car together, most of the time we will vie for jobs, like we did with Livvy. I compete fiercely with John Smith for business, and Henley’s his lead builder. That, right there, is a conflict of interest, one I don’t know how to resolve.

  I glance away from her briefly, spotting the Dramamine pack on the table. I lean over the edge of the couch for it, and she pretends to cling to me, like she can’t bear to let me go. “Don’t leave the cocoon of the blanket,” she teases.

  “Just getting something.” I hand her the packet. “It’s for you.”

  She clutches them to her chest and flutters her lashes. “You are so romantic. Don’t ever, ever let anyone tell you otherwise, Max Summers.”

  “I got you hot chocolate and motion-sickness pills. That’s the height of romance.”

  She laughs then bumps her hip against me. I groan because it feels really fucking good. She sets the pills on the table, and I tug her back under the blanket.

  As I bring her close to me, she murmurs, “Hey, Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re totally out of my system.” Her voice is sleepy sexy.

  “You’re so out of my system, too.”

  “I should go, then.”

  “You should absolutely leave.”

  But as I drag her closer, I inhale that spring apple scent that’s now mixed with sweat, and sex, and me, and I can’t for the life of me want to let her go.

  She makes the decision for me.

  She’s gone when I wake up.

>   33

  She left a note behind. I discover it on the edge of my bathtub. It’s a Post-It, and reading it does funny things to my chest. Things that feel both foreign and incredibly good at the same time. I carry it around all day.

  * * *

  To-Do List:

  * * *

  —Don’t daydream about that guy you have a thing for.

  —Don’t stare at his fine butt when you work with him on the car.

  —Don’t let on you’re thinking of last night by the window.

  —Don’t make stupid sex eyes at him.

  —Do wear something so subtly sexy that he has to fight off dirty thoughts all day long.

  * * *

  As I head to work, I decide the first one is my favorite, and I’m pretty damn sure it’s because it mirrors my own sentiments for her. But the other four items earn strong second-place showings. At the shop, I take her dos and don’ts to heart. When I work with her on the Lambo, I successfully fend off the filthy images. It’s not easy, since she wears tight jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. When she bends over the hood, I cop a peek at the swell of her breasts. They’re heavenly. But so is that smile she wears. I’m seeing more and more of it these days. It stretches to her eyes, and the gold flecks in them sparkle when she shoots me a tiny grin.

  “You’re doing it,” I say under my breath, since the guys are working on the Challenger several feet away.

  “Doing what?”

  I raise my eyebrows and mouth “sex eyes.”

  She shakes her head and whispers, “Stupid sex eyes.” She raises her voice. “To be precise.” Then she holds up the wrench and taps the engine to indicate the part she’s working on. “Precise with the head gasket.”

  “And if you’re not, you could blow a head gasket,” I say, punctuating it with a sitcom soundtrack drumroll.

  Henley pretends to guffaw as if this is the height of humor.

  “We don’t like his blown head gasket jokes, either,” Mike barks as he walks behind me.

  “Solidarity. Preach it,” Henley says, thrusting her arm in the air, in a rock-on gesture. Then she calls out to Mike. “By the way, that’s one badass set of wheels.”

  Mike flashes a grin. “Thanks. They’re pretty sick. Want to see what we did under the hood?”

  “Absolutely,” she says, and she joins the guys for a few minutes as they show off their fine-tuning on the car. She nods, asks questions, and compliments them on their work. They don’t leer at her; they don’t stare at her tits. They talk to her, and she talks to them. It’s everything she wants—respect.

  Guess I’m the only one who’s guilty of staring at her tits. Shit.

  Lords knows, I salivated for this woman back in the day, too. I remember that during the last few weeks she worked for me, my attraction to her had magnified, like a drumbeat growing louder. The day I gave her the assignment for the Mustang paint job, I could barely take my eyes off her. She wore a blue button-down work shirt and dark jeans. Basic, standard clothes. But even with the top button undone, she looked like candy.

  Quickly, I gave her the details on the Mustang, and then I took off for a trip to Boston. On the train to Massachusetts, I blasted music in my ears, pissed but grateful to be out of the orbit of my unrequited and wildly inappropriate attraction.

  I vowed to do better when I returned. To just fucking smother it with a pillow till it choked its last dying breath.

  Instead, I fought with her, and I fired her.

  Maybe I’m the kind of guy she’s worried about in this business. The kind who objectifies her. I scrub a hand over my jaw and try to make sense of this memory. It feels like a long-forgotten dream that you suddenly recall with perfect clarity. Then it sticks to you and repeats and repeats in your mind. Only, I don’t know what to do about it or what it means, so I focus on the work.

  As we finish up most of the customization and a few more promos that day and into the next, I find myself noticing how well she fits in this business. She’s come into her own as a builder, exactly how I believed she would.

  After the guys leave the next day, John stops by in the afternoon to survey the work. The clients are coming over this evening, and he wants to check the car out before they do. John whistles his approval as he surveys the vehicle. “Damn, you two make a helluva team,” he says, then drops his hand on Henley’s shoulder. The sight of him touching her pisses me off. It’s like he wants to remind me she’s his. She works for him. “Bet you wish she was still yours,” he says, with a wink.

  Under my breath I mutter, “She is.” I do my best to bite back more words like “she’s mine” and “get your damn hands off her.” Instead, I look at Henley and say, “Yeah, we do make a great team.”

  John claps me on the back next. “I’m only busting your chops, Max. I’m just glad I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who convinced this woman to come work with me. She’s the best,” he says, then he gives the woman of the hour a big, bright smile.

  I want to punch him.

  And I’m not a violent man.

  So I play at his game instead. “She’s absolutely tops,” I add, then give her my own grin.

  He takes off, and I couldn’t be happier.

  Once he’s gone, Henley gives me a curious stare. “Would you like some swords next time to go with your swordfight?”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s a little possessive of you.”

  “You’re his chief competitor, and I’m his lead builder. Of course he’s possessive.”

  “And no, I don’t need a sword. Mine works just fine.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “Yes, it certainly does.” She heads to the shelves to grab some tools, calling out as she goes, “But next time, leave me out of the whole talon-lock-over-territory thing,” she says, brandishing her hands like claws.

  I give her a salute. “Ten-four, tiger.”

  Still, I’m not about to let John win this game of one-upmanship. Besides, Henley is fucking awesome, and I want her to know that. Before David and Creswell stop by to check out the car, I tell her. Because she deserves to know, and because maybe I need to course correct. I want to make up for the overdose of attraction I felt for her in the past. “You’ve got it, Henley. Respect. You really don’t have to worry. And you have it because you’ve earned it.”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. I hope so. I need it for—”

  But she doesn’t finish because the bell rings.

  I wipe my hands and head to the door, opening it for our sharp-dressed clients. Creswell wears a bow tie and his skull shines like he buffed it, while David is decked out in a suit and his ever-present smile.

  “She’s almost done. All we need is the specialty emblem now for the hood,” Henley declares, gesturing grandly to the Lambo. Her excitement is infectious. Creswell flings a meaty hand over his eyes and pretends to be blinded.

  “It’s like staring at the sun. She’s gorgeous.”

  David strides over to the car, crosses his arms, and simply shakes his head in admiration. “I want to eat her up with a spoon.”

  I laugh. “Be sure to add whipped cream with a cherry on top.”

  We spend the next fifteen minutes walking them through the customization and showing off the work we did, recording it all on video as we go. To say they’re pleased is an understatement. I couldn’t be happier that the client is satisfied with my work. Correction: our work. Even though I shared credit on this one, Henley’s role made the car better.

  I flash back to five years ago. To the paint job mix-up. The fights. The insults. I should have been complimenting her work then to the Mustang client. Instead, I was cleaning up the mess we’d made.

  Or was it the mess I made?

  Maybe I didn’t do enough then to right the wrong. But now, I can make sure she gets the credit she deserves.

  I clear my throat. “Guys. I just want you to know that you chose wisely by having Henley on this project. I would have made you a fantastic car myself, but with her in
volved, it’s even better.”

  “We couldn’t be happier that you did it as a team. The two of you have a great spark,” David says as he mimes making an explosion with his hands.

  When Henley smiles, her eyes stay on me the whole time. The brown in them is the warmest shade I’ve ever seen, and it does that thing to my chest again. That flopping, flipping thing. I look away.

  Creswell gives me a side nod, the universal sign for I want to talk to you in private. I lead him to my small office and shut the door.

  “Everything good?” I ask.

  “Everything’s great,” he says, then looks at his watch. “I’m heading to Miami for a day trip, but when I return I want to talk to you about a few other projects. We have customization jobs for some other shows in the pipeline, and we want you to do the work.”

  That familiar burst of pride and excitement takes root, but it’s tempered by caution because the last time he did this, the network pulled a bait and switch. “Would these be solo projects or joint projects?”

  Creswell chuckles. “The joint project was good for the cameras and the publicity. You and Marlowe have a great chemistry, and that helps us to promote the show. But for the other work, I think we’ll take your expertise.” His compliment makes me feel shittier than it should. “We’ll set up a meeting for when I return.”

  We leave my office to find Henley and David laughing and chatting by the car. For a split-second, I remember how I felt when I saw them talking at the show. Jesus Christ, I’ve got to get a handle on my jealousy. It’s like a fucking goblin on my shoulder, clawing and clutching at me.

  “We just need to get the emblem from the supplier in Milford, Connecticut,” Henley says to David. “He said he’d have it in by Saturday, then we’ll install it, and we should be good to go with this beauty.”

  “I can head out there and pick it up,” I offer.