I signal, slow, and pull onto the shoulder to raise the top. Once it’s up, I turn to her. Her eyes are a pure chocolate brown. Vulnerable.
“Hey,” I say. “You forgot one place where my mouth would be.”
“I did?”
I grab her face in one hand and crush her lips, kissing her like I would have if we’d stumbled out of the bar together last night, drunk on each other, high on the flirting, ready to go to her place or mine. To tear off clothes, map each other’s skin, drive each other wild.
I kiss her like I would have if I’d undressed her, worshipped her body with my tongue and lips, then moved her beneath me and lowered the full weight of my body onto hers. I haven’t had her like that. Under me on a bed. I want her on her back, her hair fanned out on a pillow, her beautiful body revealed to me. She trembles as I kiss her, and the uncertainty I felt this morning melts away. She ropes her arms around my neck and pulls me closer.
Goddamn, I want her now. I want her deeper and closer. But as the rain lashes the windshield, I’m acutely aware we have a deadline to meet. The supplier closes shop soon.
Not to mention the other little issue. As I separate, I flash her a lopsided grin. “I’m all for car sex, but side of the road on I-95 feels like the textbook definition of a bad idea.”
She laughs warmly. “I’m with you on that one.” She runs the back of her fingers along my cheek. Softly, she says, “Max.”
“Yeah?”
“The same.”
I furrow a brow. “What’s the same?”
“Everything you said last night. It’s the same for me. I’ve been attracted to you since I met you. I feel it everywhere.”
The world shifts on its axis. It’s like my entire body is plugged in. I’m crackling and electric and so turned on. But there’s more to it than that. Something stirs inside me again—something that feels foreign and strange but is completely welcome, too. “Is that so?”
She nods. “When I said I’ve tried hard not to get involved with anyone in the business, and the only time I’ve been involved is now,” she says, reminding me of her words from the night on my couch, “I also meant the only time was with you before. Even though we weren’t a thing. But I was so into you, it pretty much felt like we were involved.”
“Same here.” I press a final kiss to her lips, partly so I won’t ask the next thing on my mind—how involved are we now?
I don’t want to ruin the moment, and I don’t want to miss our deadline. And I’m glad I’m saying sayonara to the goblin and the insidious thoughts he planted in my head of her and John Smith.
When I merge back onto the highway, I ask her if she wants to listen to music. She tells me she has a playlist, and I say I do, too.
“You have a playlist?” she asks, surprised.
As she shoots me a challenging stare, I pick up where she left off last night. “She wanted me then. She still wants me now,” I say, singing for her.
She laughs, then takes my hand and threads her fingers through mine. Like that, we drive through the rain. The tension in me unwinds. The worry about what’s happening between us fades away. I don’t entirely know what we are, but I know something is happening and it’s not stopping, and somehow we’ll figure it out.
Until I realize near Milford that her fingers are sliding out of mine. They’re slipping into her purse, and she’s checking her phone.
My chest tightens. I don’t know why this bothers me so much.
But it does.
It really fucking does, especially since she can’t stop checking her phone. The goblin rears its head again, roaring back to life. Only this time I’m jealous of something else.
I’m jealous of whoever it is that knows this woman better than I do. I want to know her. I want to understand her. I want to be the one she tells why she’s nervous, why she nearly nibbled on her nail, and what she’s waiting for.
But I’m not that guy.
We are mostly business as we stop at the supplier and pick up the emblem for the Lambo. The rain splashes in thick streams from the sky, and Henley pops open a white umbrella with lavender polka dots as we head into the supplier’s shop.
Small talk about the car and the show occupies us for several minutes. Then we say good-bye and return to my Triumph with the special-order emblem. As I back out of the lot, silence fills the small space between us again. It’s thick, like smoke you can barely see through.
As I shift the car in first, I glance at her, and she locks eyes with me. I swallow past the dryness in my throat. Someone needs to speak. Someone needs to fucking figure out what’s happening between us.
For a moment, as I plug Creswell’s address into the GPS on my phone, Patrick’s comment rings in my ears.
Tell Henley you want more than just sex.
With my hand on the knob of the shifter, that reality forces its way front and center. That’s the issue. That’s the rub. I want to be that guy for her. I want to know what’s going on in her life. I want to be more than her one-night, two-night, three-night stand. I want to be the guy she gets off to and the guy she goes out with.
I’ve got it bad for this girl.
As I signal onto the road to our client’s house, slowing my speed on the rain-slicked concrete, I noodle on what to say, and how the fuck to navigate being something more with her when she’s the competition. How I can make heads or tails of all the reasons why I shouldn’t spend one more night with her. We’d have to confront the prospect of trade secrets, shared clients, and more every day. We’d constantly be pursuing the same deals. We’d bump elbows and heads, and knock into each other all the time. Those phone calls and stolen moments away would only intensify. It’s a small world, maybe too small to be involved with my rival. To top it off, she distracts me to no end.
She makes me lose focus.
She makes me want to be with her.
She makes me fucking feel.
And that’s the problem. I feel something for her.
But I want her more than I don’t want all the fucking complications.
I curse out loud as I turn the corner.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Shit.
That was supposed to be said in my head.
And she reminds me of me now. She reminds me of when I asked earlier on the ride if she was okay. Her comment makes me wonder if she feels the same pull. The same intensity. The same whatever this is.
The same.
I try to shake off the tempest of questions rattling my brain and dragging down my heart. The GPS lady tells us Creswell’s house is one mile away. Dusk is falling.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I mutter, then the words tied up inside me unknot. “What’s going on in your life?” I ask at the same time as she blurts out, “What’s happening here?”
I keep going. “It drives me crazy not knowing. It drives me fucking insane.”
“Between us. Because there’s something happening.”
But the next thing that happens is my phone. It buzzes loudly in the holder. Creswell’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe and answer him on speaker.
“Hey! We’re almost there.”
“Thank God I caught you,” he says, his voice heavy with relief.
Henley’s eyes meet mine, and hers are full of concern.
“What’s going on?”
Creswell breathes out hard, as if he’s been running for miles. “I’m here with Cynthia, and she’s hurt, and I need to get her something.”
Henley makes a T with her hands. “Hey, Creswell,” she says. “Who’s Cynthia?”
“Cynthia is my girlfriend. I’m at her house. We just returned from the ER.”
“Oh my God,” Henley says, straightening her spine. “Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” he says, and I can hear his shoes clicking against the floor. He must be pacing. “She was at her house earlier, making a salad to bring tonight, when she sliced off her finger.”
My eyes nearly pop from my head. “She s
liced off her finger?”
“Yes, the tip. It was a bit bloody. The surgeon sewed it back on, but she’s quite shaken, as you can imagine.”
“Of course. What can we do to help?”
“Let us know if we can get you anything. We’ll help however we can.”
“You’re near my house?” He asks it as if that’s the answer to his prayers.
A quick check of the GPS tells me we’re five hundred feet away. “Almost there. What do you need?”
“My spare key is under a rock on the side porch,” he says, detailing exactly how to find it as I scan the mailboxes for his number. “Once you get it, plug in the code to the security system.”
He gives us the number, and Henley grabs a Sharpie from her purse and writes down the number on a pad of paper.
“I would go myself, but I can’t leave her.”
“Of course not,” Henley says, her voice all calm and concerned. “What does she need? A pillow? A change of clothes? Her eyeglasses?” she asks, rattling off the usual suspects.
“No. She needs Roger. He always calms her down.”
I pull into his driveway and cut the engine. “Who’s Roger?”
I had thought Roger was his partner. Hell, maybe Roger is his other partner, and they have some unusual threesome thing going on.
But the next words from Creswell clear up the Roger confusion completely.
“He’s my monkey.”
38
Henley’s To-Do List
* * *
—Duck if he throws something.
* * *
—Find nearest banana.
* * *
—Look away if his paw is between his legs.
* * *
—Get him.
* * *
—Scratch that.
* * *
—Make Max get him.
39
Roger is naked.
“I thought he’d be wearing a diaper.”
“Creswell said he was well trained. I guess he’s house trained, too,” Henley says, her tone one of awe as we approach the wild animal who lives with our client in a pristine two-story Connecticut colonial.
Roger swings from the top of the enclosure in Creswell’s living room. We take careful, measured steps toward the huge wire cage that runs from the floor to the ceiling and looks like it would fit in a zoo. Inside is a miniature forest, and Roger seems to enjoy it—he jumps from the wire to a branch on a little replica of a tree. Then he leaps to the front of the cage and sticks a small hand through the holes.
Henley points at him and covers her mouth. A dart of worry shoots through me, since she looks scared. But instead, she bounces on her heels and suppresses a childlike shriek. She spins around, doubles over, and says, “Oh my God, he’s so fucking cute!”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear.
She spins back and grabs my arm, clutching me in excitement. “Look at him! Just. Look. At. Him.”
Roger is, by any definition of the word, a pipsqueak. He’s a Callimico monkey, Creswell told me as I’d parked the car and looked for the key. He’s a rescue from Bolivia, and his right arm is permanently injured. That’s why he lives here.
He’s all black and no bigger than a squirrel. His tail is a yard long. His hand is the tiniest thing I’ve ever seen, and his fingers are long. His fur gleams so brightly he could be a monkey shampoo model.
“Is he going to throw anything at us?” Henley asks as we near the cage.
A quick scan of Creswell’s clean living room, from the immaculate hardwood floors to the shimmering glass coffee table and unmarked, unscratched beige leather couch, tells me that the man wasn’t lying when he said Roger was well trained. There’s not a trace of monkey projectile or monkey mark anywhere.
“He doesn’t seem to be taking aim at you with any missiles,” I say as we reach the cage.
Roger’s small brown eyes widen and he shoots out his hand, clasping as much of Henley’s shoulder as he can grasp. “Oh my God,” she shrieks.
“Is he still the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Her smile is huge as she nods. “He’s adorable. I’m in love with him.”
I raise my eyebrows as Roger makes a chattering noise, like a little lovebird in a tree. “I think he’s in love with you, too.”
Following Creswell’s instructions, I unlock the door to the enclosure, opening it slowly. Roger yanks his paw back into the cage. I’ll be honest—I’m expecting the primate to just take off. To race across the living room, scamper up the stairs, and swing from the chandeliers. And I’m ready with my arms wide open to try to catch the guy if he gives me a run for my money.
Memo to bookies: Bet on the monkey, not the man.
The second the door creaks open, Roger leaps—but not across the living room. He flings himself at Henley with a happy shriek. A look of terror flicks across Henley’s eyes, but it morphs quickly to a wild thrill as she welcomes him in her arms. His tail seems to have a mind of its own, and he wraps it around her waist. She cuddles him in the crook of her arm, snuggling the tiniest creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Henley coos at him. It is the sound of a woman falling for a child. “Hey there, sweet thing,” she says to him in a soft, doting tone.
Roger bares his teeth in a smile then makes his lovebird chatter once more.
“Told you so. The dude is smitten,” I say, as Henley strokes his chin. Roger lifts it higher, giving her full access for a petting session.
“Gah! I’m smitten, too. I thought he was going to throw poo at me or jerk off.”
I crack up. “And instead, he’s putting out for you.”
Henley shoots me a stern stare. “He is not putting out. He’s a sweet boy.” She looks at the monkey in her arms. “Are you a sweet boy, Roger? Yes, you are. You’re such a sweet boy. Do you want a banana?”
On that note, Henley strides out of the living room in her purple dress, a black primate snug up against her, me behind her. She heads to the state-of-the-art kitchen with its marble island counter and Sub-Zero fridge. A back door with a small dog entry cut into it leads to the yard. Perhaps Creswell has a dog, too. Or maybe Roger uses the dog door. Henley grabs a banana from a fruit bowl. Roger shakes his head and leans away from her, snagging a slice of a Macintosh apple that’s been left on a plate. Maybe it’s the remains of his lunch. He bites into it and then finishes the wedge a minute later.
“He even eats apple chunks adorably,” Henley says, so completely head-over-heels for Roger.
I look at my watch as a bird squawks from the yard. “We should get the calming monkey to Creswell.”
Henley wraps an arm tighter around him. “Unless I steal him first,” she says then adopts an evil tone. “Muahaha. Roger is mine. He’s coming home with me.”
I tip my forehead to the front door. “First the monkey bread. Now the monkey love. What’ll be next?”
“Monkey business,” Henley says as we leave. She snags her umbrella from the front porch, pops it open, and covers Roger with it, like a doting mama.
I shake my head, amused.
She nudges my side with her elbow. “Aww. Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a monkey, Max.”
“Not unless he can have monkey sex with you.”
She covers one of his ears with her hand. “Don’t talk that way in front of Roger. He’s young and impressionable.”
“And you’re far gone,” I say as I open the car door. Gently, Henley sets Roger in the back, next to the wine and champagne. He grabs the buckle that I’m pretty sure was designed to strap in golf clubs, and slings it over the world’s smallest waist. Clearly, this isn’t Roger’s first rodeo. He’s a regular passenger.
As I hit the gas, with the woman I’m crazy for in the front seat and a miniature monkey in the backseat of my prized Blue Betty, I’m right where I was a few minutes ago, and that means it’s time to finally deal with the elephant in the room.
Or really, to get the monkey off my back.
>
40
Henley’s To-Do List
* * *
—Finish the conversation.
41
She speaks first. “It’s a business deal I’m working on.”
Henley makes this announcement as she twists her body in the front seat so she can pet Roger in the back.
“You and Roger have a business deal?” I ask, since two-plus-two isn’t equaling four.
“No. The thing that’s going on with me. The thing that distracts me,” she says as we return to the conversation we had before the Monkey Mayday Call. “The reason I kept checking my phone. The reason I left you last night to meet with John. I have to keep it totally quiet or it could fall apart. I’m sorry if I’m distracted. I’m not supposed to be saying a word, but I can tell it drives you crazy. So I wanted you to know.”
She must be working the biz dev angle hard, wheeling and dealing and lining up new clients. She’s got the skills under the hood, but I bet she’s damn fine at luring new clients, too, and I do understand the need to keep that close to the vest.
“I get it,” I say, as a long stretch of rain-slicked quiet country road spills before us. The GPS voice instructs us to stay on this road for a mile. “It does drive me crazy, but that’s not fair. The truth is, I’m a jealous ass when it comes to you, and I don’t know how to stop feeling this way.”
She adopts a shocked expression. “You’re jealous? I hadn’t noticed at all.”
“It can be pretty hard to spot at times. You might need a magnifying glass,” I say drily, as the windshield wipers flick against the glass. “Listen, Henley, I’m sorry I’ve been so worked up. I just want to know what’s going on in your life, because I want to know you. You asked what was happening here between us, and that’s what’s happening,” I say, drawing a deep breath. Then I decide it’s time. It’s just fucking time. I can’t keep stewing in my own frustration. “I know I’ve said that us being involved would be a terrible idea, but after the last few days, all I can think is that us not being involved would be much more terrible. I want to know you even more. Because everything I know already I like so much. So much that lately you’re all I think about.”
Joy Ride Page 18