Full Package

A picture fills my screen, and I stop in the hospital corridor, grab the wall, and try to snap my tongue back up from the floor. Because I am panting that hard as I gawk at the image of the tops of her breasts. She took a goddamn fucking selfie of her tits, and I’m royally turned on.

But here at work, I have to keep the drawers neat, so I turn off my phone. I’m all business for the two hours until break time.



Chase: Had to remove a marble from a nose, and it took all my brainpower not to think of the sad fact that I didn’t get to see your breasts in the flesh last night. Your picture didn’t help. Wait. Scratch that. Send more. SHOW THEM ALL TO ME.



* * *



Chase: I should let you know I’m a dirty bastard, and you have the world’s most glorious breasts I’ve ever seen, only I haven’t seen them yet. Therefore, I’m sad.



* * *



Josie: Don’t be sad. I have a solution to make you happy.



* * *



Chase: More pictures???



* * *



Josie: Better. I’ll flash you when you get home.



* * *



Chase: Did you just hear the groan of excitement I made all the way from Mercy?



* * *



Josie: It’s still reverberating here in the Upper West Side.



* * *



Chase: Also, please do more than flash me.



* * *



Chase: Gotta go. Break’s over. See ya.



* * *



Josie: Good luck. Let me know if you want me to bring you home anything.



* * *



Chase: You.





20





Max lowers the hood on an electric-blue beauty, gently closing it. His eyes are focused on the metal meeting metal the entire time, until it’s whisper-quiet on the lot. Then he turns, wipes his hands on a red-checked rag, and nods hello.

“What will that sapphire baby set me back?” I tip my chin toward the sleek vehicle that shines so bright it’s reflecting the skyscrapers nearby where Max’s custom car shop is located in Midtown West.

He laughs at me and shakes his head. “More than you ever can afford,” he says, then tucks the rag into the back pocket of his jeans, streaked with grease.

He’s shirtless, the fucking show-off. “Dude, put a shirt on.”

“You can’t handle this much manliness, can you?”

He puffs out his chest, the intricate Celtic tats on his pec and the tribal bands on his arms on full display.

I roll my eyes. “Let’s just say I see more bodies naked in a day than you can even imagine, and though most aren’t vying for Centerfold of the Month, yours still ranks as the one I least want to see bare.”

In a flurry, Max wraps an arm around me and puts me in a headlock.

Fuck, I forgot how strong he is. His muscle-bound bicep ropes tighter around me, and he digs his knuckles into my head, reminding me how he’s the master at noogies.

“Say you love me best,” Max commands, his voice deep. “My bare chest especially.”

I wince as his grip tightens. I refuse to give in. “Never,” I grunt.

“You sure?” His knuckles might, just might, be penetrating my skull now. He’s sweaty, too. Crap. I have to give in.

Nope. I can’t give in.

“I love you but not your chest,” I say between stilted breaths.

The punishment deepens. He squeezes harder. Airflow becomes a debatable item in my life. I have no choice. “And your stupid chest,” I mutter.

“My chest isn’t stupid.”

His hold on me turns pincer-grip style, but his skin is sweaty from work, and with one quick twist I break free, then dart out from his grip. Thrusting both hands in the air, I strut across the asphalt. “And speed beats brawn,” I tease.

Max just shakes his head at me as he strides inside the garage and grabs a black T-shirt from his messy desk, strewn with papers and tools.

He tugs the shirt on and wipes his brow. He returns to the small lot. “And the answer is—this baby is a cool five hundred K,” he says, running his hand lovingly along the exterior of the car.

I whistle. “Damn. What have you Frankensteined together here?”

“It’s a souped-up Lambo, and get this—” His dark brown eyes gleam with excitement. “Got a call earlier today about custom outfitting a car for RBC network for a new show where the hero is like a modern-day Magnum, P.I.”

“Fuck yeah,” I say, clasping his hand in a congratulatory shake. “That’s awesome.”

“It’ll be a blast and it should do wonders for business,” he says and mimes an explosion with his hands. Max’s business is already killing it, and he’s got several celebrity clients as well as plenty of under-the-radar high-rollers. “But this kind of deal could be huge for publicity.”

“You are a rock star,” I say, no joking, no teasing this time. “You ready to ride?”

“Always,” he says, since we’re scheduled for a training ride before I head home. Josie has her soccer league tonight, so I’m not sure when I’ll see her.

He heads inside to grab his road bike, and while he’s gone my phone beeps.

I grab it from my back pocket.



* * *