Joy Ride

“I’ve asked Henley to play a role on the show, building the car as well. And bear with me, Max. I know we already brought you on, and we plan to honor that commitment and pay you the same fee.” He pauses, takes a breath, and squares his shoulder. “We want you two to build the hero’s car together.”


Shock ripples through me. My jaw clangs to the floor, but I snap it back in place before they can see. My gut twists, and I feel as if I’ve been fucking played. This was my gig. My job. And here she is again, sneaking into my business.

“That so?” I ask in the most casual voice I can muster. Never let them see you sweat.

“Together?” Henley croaks out. She points to me, then to her. “You want us to work on the car together?”

I jerk my head. She seems as perplexed as I am. But isn’t she in on it?

David nods enthusiastically. “I know this might seem last minute and topsy-turvy. But bear with me. That’s sometimes how the TV business goes.” He laughs in a self-deprecating fashion as he mimes tugging a light switch on. “New ideas pop into your head and you need to move on them lickety-split.” He centers his attention on Henley. “When I first called you last night, I thought we might have you spruce up our heroine’s car on the show, but the automaker wants to do that one all by itself. Since they’re a sponsor, we said yes. But I remembered how well the two of you got along, and I thought, not only would it be great for the web promos we want for the car, but that kind of connection”—he threads his fingers together—“can make for a great car.”

My brain goes haywire. All gray matter short-circuits. Is he for real? I scratch my head. “You think so?”

“We love both your work. You’re the top two builders in Manhattan, and you make beautiful cars. Max, you bring unparalleled expertise and experience, and Henley, you bring a certain energy that we honestly think will help us win a female audience for this show. Add in the way you two seemed to connect, and it’s a match made in TV heaven.” He sheepishly adds, “I sometimes fancy myself a casting director. In any case, we think it’ll attract even more viewers if we have you two working on our hero’s Lamborghini together.”

And that’s when his pitch clicks. Instantly, I hate how much sense he makes. I despise that my business side wants to agree with him. Because the trouble ahead sign flashing in front of me indicates I should run the other way . . . from Henley. But that’s not what I’m going to do.

“I’m flattered,” Henley says with a bright smile, setting her hand on the tribal band on my arm. I flinch for a split-second because I wasn’t expecting the contact. She squeezes my bicep. Well, she tries. She can barely get her hand one third of the way around it. “Especially since Max is so very talented.”

“And so are you,” I manage to say, since I can’t let her look better than me to the client. Can’t let her appear more complimentary.

She meets my eyes, tsk-tsking me. “I mean it. If you’d have asked me who I wanted to build a car with, my dream co-builder, there’s no question. I’d say this guy. Right here.”

“Aw shucks. That’s so sweet. And you know,” I say, patting her hand then squeezing it, too. The monkey bread détente has ended. No more peace. Just pretending we dig each other like crackers dig cheese. “I’d say the same about you, Henley.”

The only thing missing from this suck-up moment is the pookie nickname.

David eats it up, grinning delightedly. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says, utterly enchanted with his matchmaking skills. He leans across the table, clasps one hand on my outside shoulder, the other on hers, and simply marvels at this two-headed hellfire demon he’s created. “That’s what I want. That kind of magic. It’s going to be beautiful.”

He lets go and drops back in the plush chair. “Let me tell you more about the plan. We want you to work on the customization for the Lamborghini Miura from the ground up. Conceive it. Shape it. Blueprint it. You’ll need to work together every step of the way to plot each detail and then make it happen.”

I get a feeling in my chest. That fire. That desire, just like I felt in his office. Like Indiana Jones when he first spotted the golden idol in the temple in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’m sure Harrison Ford’s fingers itched to touch it. His brain whirred trying to devise a path to it. I want this gig even more than I did when David first offered it to me.

Do I want to build with her? Hell fucking no.

But I can’t blow this chance just because she drives me crazy. I flash back to Mark and his compliments. To Mike and how far he’s come. To all the guys and gals I’ve helped in this business. I might have half a mind to walk right out of here because this feels like a bait and switch, but the part of me that won’t back down from a challenge keeps my ass in the seat.

Henley lifts a finger. “Can you excuse me for just one little second? I need to go to the little girls’ room.”

“Of course,” David says, gesturing in the direction of the restrooms.

I glance at her furtively as she moves through the crowd. She dips a hand into her purse and grabs her phone. Who’s she going to call in the ladies’ room?

Out of nowhere, that red-hot jealousy that flicked in me at the car show roars again. It burns more brightly as I picture her calling her boyfriend.

Make that white-hot envy.





12





Henley’s To-Do List



* * *



—Thank Jay for that amazing advice on the fly.



* * *



—Rein in the holy effing you-know-what look on my face . . . even though this is such a what-the-flippety-flip situation.



* * *



—Get down on my knees and thank my lucky stars for this opportunity.



* * *



—Call Olivia later so we can plan a girls’ night out to celebrate and dance.



* * *



—Side note: Find some sort of techniques (hypnosis, perhaps?) to stop thinking Max Summers is hot . . . How can someone be hot when he needles a gal so much?



* * *



—Ask lawyer to speed up paperwork because this could be huge.



* * *



—Keep mouth shut.





13





She returns from the restroom, stuffing her phone into her purse as she weaves her way through the early evening patrons—throngs of women in skinny jeans and heels holding cosmos and packs of men in tailored slacks and button-downs with cuffs rolled up.

Who’s the lucky guy, I want to ask her.

I mean, unlucky guy. Who’s the fucking unlucky bastard you just called? I feel sorry for any dude who has to put up with this firebrand. She must be the world’s worst girlfriend. I bet she wins awards for being a nag. For refusing to let her guy hang out with his buds. For getting on his case about everything.

She sits next to me, crossing her legs. My eyes drift to her thighs. I bet she shaved this morning.

Holy shit.

What is wrong with me?