CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  I’m just about to insert my penny into the slot when Zayne reaches over my shoulder and drops one in. “That’s from 1979. Found it in my other pocket.”

  “You’re the best!” Without thinking, I rise onto my tippy toes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

  Time freezes for a split second as I realize what just happened.

  Instead of acknowledging the kiss, I lower myself and press the coin tray to get the process underway. There’s a manual hand crank I have to spin five to ten times to actually press the penny with the image.

  When the coin drops into the tray at the bottom of the machine, I bend down and fish it out.

  “You just paid fifty-one cents to get a squished coin you can’t even use,” he teases, ignoring the kiss, though his cheeks are pink.

  “I know! But look how cute it is!” I shove my shiny souvenir in his face.

  He takes it from my fingers, inspects it and hands it back with a smile. “It’s cool that you appreciate the little things and celebrate each place you visit.”

  “We’re on this earth to live, not just exist, right?”

  Pressed penny clutched in hand, I step out onto the bustling streets of Chicago and inhale the fresh, cold air.

  It’s amazing how something so trivial could help change my mindset. Zayne made a comment about going back to my roots to find my focus again, and there it was—a penny squisher shining like a beacon in the night. I genuinely believe there’s a reason it was there, and a reason I didn’t see it until after I pushed aside my embarrassment and opened up to Zayne about my concerns. Now I have a token of gratitude to keep with me at all times. If I’m feeling down on myself, all I have to do is hold the penny, and all the beautiful things Zayne said to help get my head straight will come rushing back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zayne

  My morning has been so busy that I had to turn off my phone because I didn’t have time to put out each fire as it came in. In between tasks, my mind veers to Emily, wondering how she’s doing today. She has a serious case of impostor syndrome, which makes me sad because she deserves to be where she is. She’s a phenomenal artist, who works hard—and she’s really likable.

  Case in point, Kandy won’t stop texting asking when she’s coming back, even though I’ve explained multiple times that Emily schedules her own guest spots. This tour was a one-time thing to welcome her to the Ambassador team.

  When I switch my phone back on, I hear Henny Penny hysterically crying, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

  Literally. Because I changed my work e-mail alert to that sound bite yesterday afternoon.

  It’s the only way to describe every e-mail that comes in. Some of them aren’t even urgent, but everyone is freaking out because I’m not there—and neither is Louis. I knew he wouldn’t be in the office.

  But those e-mails can wait five more minutes because the first thing I do is open a text from Emily.

  Emily: Zayne!! My station was completely covered in sticky notes when I got to the shop this morning! There were hundreds!

  Motherfuckers, I hiss through clenched teeth. I can’t text that to her, though. I pound the screen, chest tight as I type my politically correct response. We’d come so far last night, not only in getting Emily to see her value, but to quell her anxiety about being in an unfamiliar shop. She’ll probably never trust me again.

  Me: I’m sorry, Em.

  Emily: No! It was awesome!!! It means they don’t hate me! They said they needed to get a vibe for my personality before they knew how they could act around me. After yesterday, I moved up to prank level.

  I let out a relieved breath before typing back. At least they were respectful enough to wait to get a vibe before pranking her. It reminds me of when I played soccer. We always fucked with the rookies. Some of the shit we did was brutal, but it was in good fun, not malice. Glad to hear that Emily’s personality won them over. I knew she would.

  Me: Oh! Well then, that’s awesome! Hope they put clear plastic wrap over the toilet bowl so your pee splashes back at you, then runs onto the floor!

  Emily: :/

  Emily: You’re warped, Zayne.

  Me: You’re gonna do it now, aren’t you?

  Emily: Hell yes!

  Me: Get to work.

  Emily: I’m on break! You get to work!

  Me: Yes, ma’am!

  I laugh, relieved she’s having a good time as I open my inbox and get back to work.

  Later that night, after dinner, Emily decides to come back to my room and hang out, stating she’s still hopped up on adrenaline from the day. When I picked her up for our dinner with some Ambassador clients, she was absolutely giddy; her mouth running a mile a minute telling me about how much fun she had at the shop today. I’m relieved at the one-eighty.

  She’s sitting sideways on the oversized chair next to my bed, with her legs dangling over one arm and her back against the other. Her head is down, scribbling fast and furious over her sketchpad, while I sit at the desk answering e-mails.

  “What are you up to over there?” I ask.

  “Wishing the Russian Dining Room in New York had vegan food. I’ve always wanted to go to that place.” She sighs dramatically but doesn’t look up.

  Not the answer I was expecting. Most people would have told me what they were sketching, but Emily Commons is not like most people. Every time she opens her mouth she surprises me.

  “They have a vegetarian menu,” I offer.

  “I know.” She stretches out, leaning back and dangling her head over the side of the chair. Her hair brushes the ground. “But it’s like, eighty-five dollars for the vegetarian high tea and only one or two things are vegan. I just can’t justify it.”

  I tilt my head as if that will allow me to see her right side up. How the hell can she stay upside down like that without getting lightheaded?

  “Emily, I can estimate how much money you rake in. I think you can afford to spend eighty-five dollars on a lunch at a place you’ve always dreamed of going.”

  “That’s not the point,” she says. “It just doesn’t seem right to spend that kind of money on something so pretentious. People are starving, and I’m sitting in a posh restaurant drinking tea with my pinkies out? I don’t want to be that way.”

  Knowing how she feels about wealth and wasting money, I let it go. No reason to make her upset when we’ve been getting along so well over the last few days. We have different views about how we spend money and what we spend it on.

  “You’ve dreamed of eating at the Russian Dining Room for years. If you have the chance to experience it, you should.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop in for tea and a shot of vodka when were in the city.”

  “How are you not dizzy?” I finally ask.

  “I don’t know, but the stretch feels amazing.” She places both hands on the floor and arches her back. Her t-shirt rides up her stomach, flashing me all the skin. I have to look away before I rush to the chair, pick her up and throw her on the bed.

  Her phone buzzes, and she shoots up in one amazing ab crunch. “Oh my damn!” Emily says, lifting her eyes to mine. “Zayne, remember Sully, the buff, lumbersexual dude from Philly?”

  “Lumbersexual?” I ask, desperately trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  “You know, the bearded guy in flannel from the video you called me out on. The one who owns Immortal Tattoo on Front street.”

  “Now I remember.” I roll my eyes.

  “He wants to get together. Says in he’ll be in NYC at the same time as I am.”

  “I thought you said sex is an energy exchange.”

  “Well, he had big dick energy, and that’s the kind of the exchange I’m looking for if you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows and nudges me with her elbow.

  I scoff. “Classy.”

  She shrugs.

  I shut my laptop. “You’re giving me whiplash, Emily. One minute I think, damn! This girl has her shit together. The next I’m holdin
g my hands over my eyes because I don’t want to see the train wreck.”

  She gathers her notepad, pencil, and phone, clutching it in her arms as she stands up. “Maybe you should run my life, Zayne. It seems like you think you could do a better job than I could.”

  “A toddler could do a better job than you could.” It’s not quite a whisper, but definitely not loud.

  “Have you always been a pompous jerk? Or do you just bring it out for me?”

  I laugh because no one has ever called me pompous before. I’d be offended if it weren’t so damn funny. Then again, I guess I do sound a bit like a grumpy old man. I’ve never made a comment like that to anyone but my brother. She brings out so many different sides, and riles me up in the best way. Keeps me on my toes, and makes me want to shut her up by pressing my mouth on hers.

  I stand up quickly. “Let’s do it!”

  “Do what?” Emily asks.

  “Let me run your life for the rest of the tour,” I say, calling her bluff.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll make the decisions on who you text back. Which guys you talk you or hang out with.”

  Her eyebrows veer together as she contemplates, then shakes her head and says, “You have me scheduled from morning until night. That’s more control than any man should ever have over my life.”

  “I’m your handler,” I try to say sternly, but I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face. I lick my lips quickly to sweep it away before she spots it. “You do what I say.”

  Emily’s eyes light up in amusement. “Sounds like you want to handle way than my life,” she says. Then she spins around and slaps her ass before sashaying out the door.

  I take a deep breath and count to five, hoping it tames my swelling cock. At least we’ve moved on from angry barbs to flirtatious banter.

  The next day, the first thing I hear when I enter the shop, is EmVee’s bubbly voice. “I love this song!”

  I have no clue what song it is, but it has a definite Latin flair.

  She lifts her arms over her head and bops around, shaking her hips and snapping her fingers to the beat. A couple of the guys look up, smile and shake their heads, amused at her antics. Looks like she’s not having any trouble winning them over anymore.

  “Zayne!” She squeals when she sees me. “Join me!” She offers me her hand, but my feet are stuck to the floor. The hopeful look in her eye tugs at my heart, but doesn’t convince me to show off my pathetic, side-to-side shuffle.

  We all have our insecurities.

  I love how she’s not afraid to get up and start dancing in the middle of a room full of people. I’ve never met anyone quite like Emily before. Her energy is so infectious, everyone in the shop is drawn to her. Dez, the owner of Lake Effect Tattoo, jumps to his feet. He scoots around his client, removing his gloves and throwing them on his chair before grabbing her hand.

  “Yeah, man!” Em nods and intertwines her fingers with his. They twirl around the open space between tattoo stations, careful not to bump into any occupied chairs. He places his free hand on his lower stomach and does a series of quick steps. The Salsa?

  “Hold up!” She lifts their joined hands in the air, eyes wide as she stares at his feet. “Show me that again, Slick!”

  “Watch the feet, then the hips,” he says, pointing to the floor than his waist. He backs up but doesn’t let go of her hand. The entire shop stops what they’re doing to watch as Dez does some quick, fancy footwork, rolling his hips in time with the motions. Next thing I know, Emily is right there with him, doing the same quick steps almost as well as he is.

  “Now add the hips, girl!” He places his fingertips on her torso, guiding her lightly in the motion.

  Sweat beads on her cleavage, giving extra sparkle to the jewels inked across her chest. There’s not a man in this shop who isn’t hiding a hard-on right now. How could they not be affected by this beautiful, sultry woman rolling her hips and shaking her ass?

  “Vicious! You’ve got a flash walk-in!” Kevin calls, interrupting the impromptu performance.

  “Never a dull moment with you, is there?” I say as she slides past me.

  “I hope not.” Her chest heaves, out of breath as she answers. “Where was the videographer for that?” she asks.

  “Don’t worry! I got it!” Kevin holds up his phone.

  “Ahhhhh! You’re the best. Send that to me so I can put on my IG story,” she says before greeting her client.

  The girl in EmVee’s chair came in for an infinity symbol incorporating her son’s birthdate on the inside of her wrist. It’s a quick, easy tattoo that won’t take Emily long. Since I haven’t had a chance to see her work and I’ve got some time, I pull up a chair to observe.

  There’s something super sexy about seeing the concentration in her eyes, and how she delicately slides a needle across someone’s skin. My eyes drop to her cleavage, which is on display in the low-cut tank top she’s wearing. It’s nothing new, as she always wears clothing that shows off her ink, but now that I’m seeing her differently, it stirs things up below the belt.

  By the time she finishes, I need a cold shower, but I’ve got an experience planned for her that she may find just as sexy, so there’s no time to cool down in between.

  “Is that my lunch?” she asks hopefully, pointing at the brown, grease-stained bag I left under the counter. Her chest rises as she inhales the divine smell wafting from it.

  “It is.” stands up and hands it to me. “Hope it’s still good.”

  “I’m so hungry, I’d eat anything right now.”

  “Careful what you say in this shop, Vicious!” Dez calls. “Words have power. And Marek is enough of a dick to come back with something nasty to test your hunger theory.”

  “Words have power,” she repeats. “Damn, Dez. I like that! You’re going to be my personal philosopher while I’m here.”

  She empties the contents of the bag on the counter, the mountain of fries spills out of a cup, and a container that I can only hope holds the ultimate vegan version of the famous Portillos sandwich. She digs in right at the front counter. Thankfully, there aren’t any clients up front to witness her stuff her face.

  “Oh my damn,” she moans, still chewing. Her eyelids slide closed in ecstasy as she devours the masterpiece. “I want this every day, for every meal.”

  Evidently, she’s happy with the meal because she starts shaking her hips, doing a happy dance at the front desk. “Thank you so much, Zayne.”

  “You’re the star of the show,” I tell her. “It’s my job to keep you happy.”

  “You won’t believe how demanding I can be,” she says in a low voice, that I’m pretty sure was for my ears only.

  “Ready to get out of here?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen, and she glances at her wrist, which is cute because there’s no watch there, just a stack of beaded bracelets in a rainbow of colors. “It’s only lunchtime.”

  “You’re off for the rest of the day,” Dez calls. “Zayne’s taking you on a play date.”

  “What the hell are we still doing here, then?” she asks, packing the fries back into the bag and heading toward the door.

  “Purse!” Kevin yells. I meet him halfway and grab it.

  “Looks like you and the guys are getting along,” I bump shoulders with her as we leave the shop.

  She rakes a hand through her hair, shaking it out as she nods. “I had to get out of my head. Just like you told me, Zayne.”

  “Well,” I say opening the car door for her. “I’m not one to say I told you so, but—”

  She sticks her tongue out before sliding into the car. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” I say, internally hoping she likes the surprise.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zayne

  I called ahead to have someone take my car out of the garage and have it washed and ready for us to use as soon as we got there. Ever since our talk about her being more professional and less childish, EmVee’s been wor
king her ass off. Despite having a packed schedule in Chicago, she deserves a break to have a little fun. All work and no play for the artist makes for a miserable tour for both of us.

  And can tell she’s getting restless playing by my rules.

  It’s a win for both of us, because I don’t get to drive very often, and I need to get on the track and get out some frustration. Fucking has the same effect, but I haven’t been “exchanging energy” (as EmVee calls it) with anyone recently. Though after this ride, she might be begging to straddle me.

  “What is this place?” she asks as I whip our rental car into the parking lot of Velocity Country Club—a club for motorsports enthusiasts who get off on driving high-performance cars on a four-mile race track. It’s hands-down, the douchiest place I’ve ever been a member of, but I don’t let the pretentiousness bother me, because it’s a fricking phenomenal experience.

  “Welcome to Velocity Country Club,” I say. If I think it’s pretentious, I wonder how she’s going to react. She’s been extremely vocal about how much she hates the waste of the wealthy.

  Emily walks beside me, eyes wide as a full moon as her head swivels, taking in the massive fleet of performance cars lined up for members of the club to take out on the tracks. It’s like being on Old McDonald’s luxury sports car farm—a Maserati here, BMW there, here a Jag, there a Porsche, everywhere an Audi, Audi.

  Not everyone owns their cars. Many people pick from the club’s impressive fleet. I did that a few times before I realized I needed to be a member. Being behind the wheel on this track was the first—and only—experience that gave me a similar rush of adrenaline that I had when I was playing in an important soccer match. I hadn’t felt that sensation since I was dropped from the team.

  I bypass the line of cars available for members and to drive, and head straight for my girl: a cherry, red Jaguar F-Type SVR, a devil of a sports car. I’ve driven this car more than I have any of my previous cars. I’ve made a few special trips to Chicago just to get her on the track. The buzz I get when the engine snaps and pops brings me to life every time.