Joy Ride

I cock my head. “How’d you know I did that car in blue?”


“I looked you up. You think it’s easy being a woman in this business? It’s not. I need to stay ten steps ahead, and I do it by knowing the business cold. I researched you, studied you, and understood you when I came back to town. You do an amazing job on nearly everything.” I can’t help it—I straighten my shoulders a bit from the compliment, loving it, even from her. “But I happen to be amazing at making sports cars, and Livvy wanted one for her wild niece, so she called this wild girl.” Henley punctuates her speech by tapping her chest.

“Wild,” I say, deadpan. “That sounds right, considering how you got a little wild with a client’s car the last time we worked together, doing things he didn’t ask for.”

The look on her face tells me she’s taken aback. “I thought it was what he wanted,” she says with less intensity and more . . . worry. “I told you that.”

I shake my head. I won’t give in to her. “You did what you wanted. Plain and simple. You nearly cost me business.”

“You nearly cost me a career.”

I fix her with a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding stare. “Your career seems just fine. Speaking of, what’s the name of this shop you opened?”

“I don’t have my own shop yet. I’m the lead builder at John Smith Rides.”

I groan. That name again. First, Sam dates a mechanic there. Now, Henley is on the fucking payroll of my rival, too.

I grab the bottle, and once more I don’t bother with a glass. Nope. I might as well drink the whole thing down. This woman is going to be a thorn in my side.



After fifteen minutes of uncomfortable silence while the car rolls along the highway, Henley turns to me. “How about we try to make this ride enjoyable?”

“Let bygones be bygones? Or did you want to play cards?”

“How about charades?”

I’m walking into something dangerous. But I do it anyway. “What kind of charades?”

“It’s a question I’m asking.”

“All right. Have at it.”

She adopts a perky little smile then leans forward, popping her butt off the seat. I remind myself that it’s not a perfect ass she possesses. Like her straw hair and rubbery lips, her butt is flat and boring, not a round, heart-shaped dream ass ripe for spanking. She waggles a pretend object in her hand, almost as if she’s cleaning. Dusting, perhaps. Next, she clasps her hand to her mouth in a Betty Boop move. “Oops,” she mouths.

“You’re allowed to do that in charades?”

She doesn’t answer. She sits back down on the seat and grabs her phone from a small purse. She points to me and shrugs as if she’s asking a question.

“Did I?” I suggest.

She nods then opens her palm a few times as if she’s grabbing something.

“Grab?”

She shakes her head.

“Get?”

She taps her nose.

“Did I get . . .?”

Henley does the dusting again then points to her phone.

Yep. Walked into it and then some. I drag a hand over my face and shake my head. “No, I did not get the maid’s number. I wouldn’t do that to a client.”

“But she was hot, right?”

I turn and stare at her. “Why are you asking?”

“She was a babe. It’s a fact. I was just curious if you got her number since she sure seemed to like you, too.”

I point to the guy behind the glass. “You want Peter’s number?”

“I don’t know. Do you think he likes pi?a coladas and making love in the rain?”

For a flash second, a burst of wildfire curls through my veins. It feels like white-hot jealousy. Which is ridiculous since she’s not making love to Peter.

Or me, for that matter, obviously.

I fight off the envy with a full dose of sarcasm. “Have you ever noticed you never have a good pair of headphones when you need them?”

She huffs. “Message received. I’ll just shut up and read a book.” She reaches for her phone on the seat, but accidentally knocks it to the floor of the car. I lean down to pick it up, and when I hand it to her I see her playlist.

Nena’s “99 Luftballons.”

The Go-Go’s “Vacation.”

Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”

I smirk. That’s too fucking adorable. “You like bubblegum pop?”

Her cheeks go red. “There’s nothing wrong with bubblegum pop,” she says as she tries to grab her phone from my hand.

I. Can’t. Resist.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s the way this girl needles me. It’s her French maid routine. It’s her pushing all my buttons. It’s the way she detests me.

I hold her phone behind my head.

“Max,” she says, in a perfect plea. God, it’s hot. I can hear her saying it in bed.

I feign surprise. “Oh, did you want your phone back, tiger?”

Her eyes widen when I use that word. Frankly, I’m surprised I said it. But she is a tiger, especially right now as she leans across the seat, reaching for it.

Damn, I’m an asshole. And yet, I can’t seem to stop playing keep-away with her phone, jamming it far behind me so that it hits the side of the car. She lunges for it, thrusting her arm out, but only hitting my forearm.

She swats me. “Give it to me.”

My brain short-circuits. God, she would sound hot saying that bent over the bed.

Then in a flurry, she unbuckles her seat belt and lunges at me.

Foul play indeed.

She’s on me. She’s fucking on me. She climbs, stretching high, her tits near my motherfucking face, so help me God. They are saggy, drooping, ugly breasts.

Except they’re not.

They’re perfect. Lush, ripe.

Like her sweet perfume scent. Like her cinnamon breath that flutters across my cheek as she rises higher. As she reaches, her T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of her stomach.

I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my life.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

I simply try not to grow more aroused. But then she wraps one hand around my wrist and pries the phone with the other as her breasts smash against my eyes.

Man down.

A second later, she wrenches back, dropping down to her seat, clutching her phone. She smooths her hand over her shirt. She won’t look at me. “Something secret on your phone?”

She jerks her head and gives me a look that could kill.

I should be pissed at her. I should torment her more. But I feel as if she’s got a legit fear, and I don’t want to be a dick. Nor do I want my dick to be in charge. He’s an idiot.

I breathe a silent sigh of relief that Operation Deflation is underway.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

She nods as she stares ahead.

I take my phone from my pocket, toggle over to my Google streaming music, and search for a song. I turn up the volume, close my eyes, and let Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” fill the silence between us.

When the song nears its end, I open one eye. Henley’s not looking at me. She’s gazing straight ahead, but there’s a smile on her face that says she likes the song.

And the sentiment.





8