No hesitation from Austin. He wants to kiss me, and he’s doing it thoroughly.
My legs are shaking, the space between my thighs hot with wanting. I step against him—I can’t help it, and wrap my arms around him. His hands stroke my hair, the touch I miss so much. Austin’s hands are skilled, magical.
I know that if he invites me inside I’ll go without vacillating. It feels good to have him against me again, all our harsh words melting into the darkness and the dry wind.
He makes a low sound in his throat, and I gasp. He jumps, and we break apart at the same instant.
We stare at each other, his eyes glistening. His chest rises swiftly, and I’m breathing hard too.
“I …” My voice falters, cracking.
“No, don’t say anything.” The words are soft, holding a tender and urgent note. Austin reaches a hand toward me.
I duck away, my heart pounding. “I have to go.” Lame, but that’s all I can say. “Paperwork. Tomorrow. Good night.”
I turn on my heel. I try for a dignified exit, but I trip on the stairs, my sandal twisting. I bite back a cry.
Austin is there to keep me from falling, holding me with his strength. I want to sink into him and stay with him all night.
Because I do, I wrench myself away. “No. Going. Now.”
My speech is garbled, and I nearly run down the rest of the steps toward my car.
“Brooke.” My name floats into the night, and everything inside me wants to respond, to dash back to him. “Wait …”
I can’t look at him, can’t answer. If I do, I will stay, and we’ll regret it. We’ll rip the lid off what we closed, and all the bad will come pouring out, clogging up the peace I’ve finally found for myself.
Is it peace, a little voice asks me. Or inertia?
“Brooke …”
It’s hard to resist Austin’s smooth tones, the promise as he says my name. I click my key fob about five times before my shaking fingers can make it unlock the door. I dive inside the car and start it, revving it with a nervous foot.
I see Austin in the middle of the walk as I pull away, watching me go. Not trying to stop me, not waving me off. Just standing in the dark.
Tears blur my eyes. “Damn it. Damn it.”
I’d woken up so calm this morning. Had a busy, productive, and predictable day. Then Austin had to walk in.
Now my body is vibrant, something inside me rejoicing. I feel his kiss on my lips, Austin against me. I fit with him, our bodies locking so easily.
I pull onto Central, but the tears cloud my vision, so I veer off into a parking lot. The bulk of a church rises against the sky, its mid-century modern steeple pointing to heaven.
I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and sob.
* * *
I didn’t drink enough the night before to be hung over—as I’d told Austin, a good wine shouldn’t do that—but in the morning, my eyes are bloodshot and my body feels hollow.
Concealer helps hide the circles under my eyes, but makeup can only do so much. When I walk into the dealership, dressed as smartly as I can, Mike takes one look at me and raises his brows.
“Rough night?” He hands me my mug filled with coffee. “Or a good one?”
I snatch the mug and dump hot liquid down my throat. “No different from any other night.”
“Really? You left with a guy you used to go out with, and his car’s still in the lot.” Mike waves his cup at the glass door in the rear of the showroom. I see a slice of Austin’s gray convertible through it.
“What makes you think I used to go out with him?” I snap. “And is that any way to talk to your boss?”
Mike and I have been friends since he started at the dealership a year ago. He’s one of the few men who accepted me as an equal right away and never treated me like eye candy hired to entice males to part from their cash.
His smile flashes. “Sorry, boss. I noticed the tension between you two, and I just thought … But I’m glad to see you cut loose—I mean, enjoy yourself. All work and no play …”
“There was no play.” I gulp more coffee. “I had a few glasses of wine, and I drove Austin home because he drank the other bottle and a half. I dropped him off and left. He’s coming in to pick up his car today. I’ll need comparison write-ups on the Ghibli—lease versus buying, plus the different specs on various down payments. By lunch, please.”
Mike isn’t deterred. “Sure thing, boss. Hope you land the sale.”
“Just let me know when he comes in.”
I’m usually not this crabby, but my head aches—not from a hangover but from lack of sleep. I’d lain awake most of the night, reliving our kiss.
Austin always kisses like he means it. No rushing, no mind on other things, no obvious hoping the kiss will lead to something more. He kisses as though he has all night, like the best thing he can possibly do at the moment is taste my lips.
He begins slowly, a soft pressure, before coaxing me to open to him. He eases my lips apart and then brushes my tongue with his, hot friction that awakens all my desires.
I can still feel his body against mine, strong arms cradling me like he’ll protect me from the world. I could plaster myself against Austin for a long, long time, imbibing him and enjoying.
I might have run like hell last night, but I couldn’t get him out of my head. Austin had stayed with me well into the morning, though he’ll never know that.
Plunging into work will erase Austin from my brain, I tell myself, but I know better. That’s like trying to forget I need food. Just when I distract myself from it, up pops the craving, and the very thing I don’t want to think about dances before my eyes.
Doesn’t help that I picture Austin dancing naked.
Austin has always been a goof, and one night, he’d sashayed around his bedroom, wriggling his bare hips to a bouncing song, singing at the top of his voice. I’d laughed so hard and realized how much I loved him.
Shit. I cut off that thought abruptly. Falling in love with Austin had been a big, big mistake.
The clock moves slowly today, and yet it doesn’t. Too soon, it’s approaching the lunch hour. Mike sells a car in the morning and I spend a welcome amount of time going through the paperwork. The buyer is a new customer. One of our repeat buyers recommended the dealership to him, which makes me happy. Nothing beats word of mouth.
At 11:30, Raymond Bromley, who owns half the business, appears. Nearing retirement, he leaves the day-to-day running of the place to me, which suits me fine.
“I’ve been on the phone all morning with Simon Lethbridge,” Raymond says. “He’s finally decided to take the Lamborghini.”
“Excellent.” I perk up, trying to brush away the nervousness about Austin’s imminent arrival. “How long have we been trying to convince him?”
Raymond considers, his silver hair catching a glint of sunlight. “Three months? I know he’s careful, but …”
Simon Lethbridge is a British man who’d relocated to Arizona to live in a place without rain. Well, we have rain at times, but not like they do in England. He inherited gobs of money from a family who’d owned about ten businesses and stays in any place in the world he wants, for as long as he wants, though he doesn’t part with his money easily.
He likes cars, however, and often comes to the showroom to browse. He’d purchased a Bentley from us a couple years ago but said he wanted something more sporty just for fun. Simon had finally started getting serious, narrowing down what he wanted with my help, but he’d been dragging his feet about making a final choice.
“There’s a catch.” Raymond stuffs his hands in the pockets of his slacks and eyes me warily.
“Catch? Uh-oh.” I brace myself for him to explain we’ll need to take back the Bentley or paint the car lime green or have me do the limbo in a bikini.
“He wants you to deliver it. Today. Now, in fact.”
Raymond’s hand comes out of his pocket, a key fob dangling.
“Me? Now?” My heart plumme
ts. I should be relieved to have an excuse to be away from the showroom when Austin arrives, but suddenly I’m not. If I’m not here to talk about the car, he might leave and never return. When will I see him again?
Raymond jingles the fob. “We’re not busy this morning. Lethbridge specifically wants you—says you’re the one who finally convinced him, and he wants to thank you personally.”
“Then why can’t he come in and pick it up?” I demand.
Raymond shrugs. “Billionaires don’t think like we do. He’s dropping a lot of money on this car—cash—and delivery is one of our services. Please, Brooke.”
I know Raymond’s right—it’s part of our job to offer great customer service. If a rich client wants a car he’s been waffling on for three months delivered to his house, we deliver it to his house.
“If I drive it over, how do I get back?” I know how—I can do a ride share, call a cab, hell, walk to a bus stop. But I’m irritated.
“Call me when you’re there and I’ll pick you up,” Raymond offers. Generous of him, because he hates driving in Phoenix traffic. I find this ironic from a man who sells cars, but he likes them to stay pristine, and prefers to drive on the track.
“I’m expecting a client of my own,” I say, trying not to sound desperate.
“I wouldn’t ask, but Lethbridge is an important customer.”
Raymond is being perfectly reasonable, and I’m not. Austin might or might not buy the Maserati while Simon’s a sure sale, and he’s acquiring a very expensive car. Raymond trusts me to get it there safely.
I snatch the key from Raymond’s hand. “Most people have a car like this delivered in a transport to a secure garage.”
“Lethbridge has a secure garage, but he doesn’t want to see it coming off a truck. He’d rather watch it heading toward him on the street, driven by a real person. You. His words.”
“Fine.” I harden my voice. “Mike, when Mr. McLaughlin arrives, please go over the financials with him. Tell him I was detained.”
“Mr. McLaughlin?” Mike gives me a puzzled look, then his expression clears. “Oh, yeah. Austin. Got it. I’ll sweet-talk him.”
“Just tell him the numbers,” I say in exasperation. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Take your time.” Raymond frowns at me. “That car’s not easily replaceable.”
“I’ll make sure it’s in perfect condition once it slides from our insurance to his.” I know Raymond is more worried about the car itself than the money—he loves them for their own sakes—but I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.
I won’t be here when Austin arrives, and that has me more upset than I care to acknowledge.
* * *
Austin
My brother Ryan drops me off at Brooke’s showroom at 12:15. He’s heading home for lunch and a little canoodling with Calandra—not that he admits the second part, but I know my oldest brother well.
Ryan knows me well in return. He’s always been my champion, defending me against our middle two brothers, mostly Zach, when they looked for someone to pick on. As the youngest, I was a natural target.
Ryan halts his SUV smoothly in front of the dealership, casting a longing glance at the flashy cars visible through the windows. “Must be nice,” he said. “But I have a little one to save for now.” Ryan’s proud expression tells me he’s not really regretful. “Say hi to Brooke for me.”
“Will do. If she even speaks to me.”
“She will—to take your check if nothing else.” Ryan sketches me a salute. “Good luck, bro.”
“Thanks.” I slide out of the SUV and lift my hand as he drives off.
I square my shoulders and walk toward the showroom. I’d spent about fifteen minutes in the bathroom at the office making sure my hair was combed but not so neat it appeared I spent fifteen minutes on it. A sudden gust of dry wind puffs around the corner and tangles it up again.
The wind carries dust, and my shirt, dark blue—Brooke likes blue—gets filmed with a sandstone-colored layer of it.
I yank open the showroom door and force myself to amble inside. I don’t care what I look like, right? I’ve come to decide whether to buy a car. The fact that I took half an hour choosing what to wear today has nothing to do with Brooke and I sharing one hell of a burning kiss last night.
And what a kiss. The hard-on I’ve had off and on since that kiss threatens to return. It had taken a cold shower and a boring documentary on the nature of gravity to calm it down last night. I did finally sleep, but dreams of Brooke—her hair silken under my hands, her skin beneath my lips, the softening of her face as she relaxes to me—did not make my night easier.
But I’m fine now, right? Not a care in the world.
“Hey, Austin. Welcome back.” Mike greets me. “Ice-water? Iced tea? Chilled wine?” I’m sure he’s offering because he’s seen the ramrod in my pants, but he continues, “It’s a hot one today.”
True. It’s 110 F already, and only the noon hour. “No, I’m good. I’m here to let Brooke convince me to buy a Maserati I don’t need.”
“Brooke’s not in.” Mike’s expression turns apologetic. “She had to deliver a car. I’ll be walking you through the paperwork.”
“Of course she did.” I deflate like a popped balloon, which includes the pesky hard-on, which is now completely gone.
Mike can’t be much younger than I am. He has a tan from whatever outdoor activities he likes—in our sunshine, walking to the mailbox will give you a tan—dark hair and brown eyes. He’s in a crisp button-down shirt and tie, expensive suit pants, and polished black shoes. The epitome of a professional salesman, the kind of guy Brooke wants working for her.
“She really did have to deliver the car,” Mike continues. “I was here when Raymond asked her to do it. Difficult client, wicked fine car. Limited edition Lamborghini.”
“I get it.” Pacifying a man who’d bought a car worth a couple million beat talking Austin into maybe purchasing a base model a twentieth that price. No contest as to who got special treatment.
“She’s very sorry to have missed you.”
I hold up my hand. “You don’t have to apologize for her. I’m guessing she ran as soon as she had the opportunity.”
Mike looks puzzled. “Why would she?”
“Because she …” I shake my head. “I’ll tell you the truth—Brooke and I used to go out. It did not end well.”
“Oh.” Mike’s mouth pulls down. “I thought that might be the case. I won’t mention it again.”
“Not your fault.” I try to relax. “I’m still interested in the car. It has nothing to do with her. Or relationships. Or anything.”
“Gotcha. Come on over to my desk, and I’ll get things rolling. Sure you don’t want wine?”
I’d over-imbibed last night, and it had gained me nothing. No headache—Brooke had been right about that—but my stomach ached. Nothing to do with the wine, though. The knot in it had tightened every time I thought about seeing Brooke today.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” I follow Mike to a desk on one side of the showroom. A black gull-winged Lamborghini rests five feet away, drawing my appreciative gaze.
If Brooke were nearby, I wouldn’t even notice it.
“Here we go.” Mike shoves two folders in front of me. “Lease terms and purchase terms.” He touches each folder in turn. “I’ll let you go over those, then you can ask me any questions.”
I open folder one, which lays out the lease terms—down payment, months, interest rate, etc. Again I regret Brooke isn’t here. I love to watch her run down the sales nitty-gritty, talking numbers in her smooth voice while her lithe fingers dance over the pages. She has the patter down. I melt listening to her. I’d buy slices of moldy cheese from Brooke when she’s in that mode.
I finish the lease folder and turn to the purchase one. I prefer to purchase—I keep cars a long time. Good ones will last many years if they’re taken care of.
My eyes widen as I scan the pages—different
monthly payments depending on terms of the loan, but each choice is possible only with a whopping amount down.
I whistle. “This is a lot of clams.”
“It’s a lot of car,” Mike says in sympathy.
“A car I have no business buying.” I think of Ryan, who’s saving every penny for my forthcoming niece or nephew, and of Zach and Ben, both being frugal for their new lives.
Mike’s cheerful demeanor evaporates into concern. “Please don’t walk away from the deal until you’ve talked to Brooke. She would not be happy with me.”
“I’d tell her it’s not your fault. Don’t worry, I’m not saying no. Just …”
I shake my head and close and stack the folders. Why can’t I be a cool billionaire and casually drop a wad of cash on the desk and snap up the keys?
Because this is real life. I’m about to tell Mike I’ll think about it and return when Brooke is around, when his cell phone rings.
“Speak of the devil,” he says, as the name “Brooke Marsh” flashes on his screen. Mike answers. “What’s up, boss?” Mike listens for a bit, then nods. “Sure thing. Be right there.”
“Something wrong?” I ask as he hangs up.
“No,” Mike says, unworried. “Brooke needs a ride back. Raymond was supposed to pick her up, but he’s with another client. This guy, Simon. He’s a smooth-talking Brit loaded with money, but he won’t fork out for Brooke’s cab fare. And I should not have told you that.”
I’m on my feet. “I’ll go.” I don’t at all like the idea of a smooth-talking, rich Englishman alone with Brooke. “What’s the address?”
Mike has no problem giving it to me, and before he puts down his phone, I’m out the door.
Chapter Four
Brooke
Simon Lethbridge is in his forties, with dark hair turning to salt-and-pepper, and a smooth British accent. A Hampshire accent, he’d told me—there is no single British or English accent, he said, as the cadence and word choice can vary from county to county, even within twenty miles.
Never Say Never: McLaughlin Brothers, Book 3 Page 3