Joy Ride

“You okay?” she asks.

“Just a little uncomfortable with the juxtaposition of the word slice next to inches.”

She rolls her eyes. Their shade is lighter now, like a walnut. I need to develop a cheat sheet to read her emotions, but I think this color corresponds to amused. “You have to know I’m not a woman who likes less inches. It pains me, too.”

My jaw nearly comes unhinged, but I resist the urge to tell her that with me, she’d get all the inches she wants and then some. I resist it with another scalding drink of coffee.

She takes a sip of hers. Her nose crinkles, and her lips curl in clear dislike.

“I take it your tastes haven’t changed?”

She shakes her head and sets down the coffee on a workbench. My heart sinks the littlest bit. I wanted her to like the coffee, or at least to have another sip. To give it a chance.

Maybe to give something else a chance. Someone.

I shake off that thought.

She’s all business now. “We should call David and tell him about the discrepancy.”

I flash back to the comments I made to Sam when he went out with Karen at John Smith Rides, then to my own concerns about getting too cozy with someone who works for my main rival. “All business” is how I should behave, too.

“Absolutely. And I’m impressed with your attention to detail,” I say.

After all, lack of attention to detail on the Mustang is what got her into trouble with me years ago.

“I’ve had to learn from my mistake,” she says, an emphasis on mistake.

And it’s unmistakable that she’s referring to my comment during the tub incident.





24





Henley’s To-Do List



* * *



—Give him a piece of my mind.





25





Henley plays cameraperson as I work on the seat adjustments. During a quick call to update David on the inch issue—he apologized profusely for giving us the glamour height—he asked if we’d be willing to shoot a DIY-style video today on our work. “Though, please don’t reveal his real height,” he told us.

And so the girl I got off to a week ago thanks to Bubble-Bath-Nipplegate is capturing me on her cell phone for all posterity.

“Tell us about the seat, Mr. Summers.”

I give an overview of the plans for it, keeping the details straightforward and the height close to the vest, per David’s request. Even though there’s no love lost between car-build reality shows and me, I don’t mind these promos. The work is real, and we’re not asked to crank the metal music or talk like streetwise presenters. As I finish the explanation, I add, “And these cars are made for drivers who are average height and build.”

“But Brick is tall and broad. He’s a big man, right?”

I nod. “That’s why we need to customize the seat.”

“Besides,” Henley quips from next to her cell phone, “you know what they say about big men?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What do they say about big men?”

She pauses, wiggles an eyebrow, and then performs a pretend drumroll with one hand. “A big man needs a big seat.”

“That he does.”

She taps her phone, ending the video. She drops the device back into her jeans. “You thought I was going to say something inappropriate?”

“Gee, Queen of Inches, I wonder why I’d think that?”

She winks. “I thought the network would enjoy a little fun banter between us. But we can go back to hating each other now.”

I sigh heavily as we work on the seat, crouching close to each other by the driver’s side. “I don’t hate you, Henley.”

“Could have fooled me.”

She’s mostly quiet the rest of the day, and so am I. We become the living, breathing definition of all business as we tackle this car.

When it’s time to wrap up in the early evening, she grabs her purse and heads to the restroom. When she returns, her hair is thicker and fuller than before, and her lips shine with red gloss. She takes a deep breath then speaks in an even tone. “I have a question for you.”

“Have at it.”

“Did it surprise you that I could solve a problem?”

“Huh?” I ask as I gather the tools and put them away.

“You acted surprised that I figured out the issue with the seat.”

I shake my head as I sort the wrenches into their drawers. “No. I wasn’t surprised you figured it out.”

“You seemed shocked.” Her pitch rises.

“Well, I wasn’t.” My voice tightens.

“Is it because you really never thought I would amount to anything?”

I blink. “Are you insane? I always thought you were crazy talented.”

“You didn’t promote me because of one mistake on the Mustang. But maybe it wasn’t about one mistake. Maybe it was that you never thought I was good enough.”

I shake my head, my jaw clenching. “You went out and proved me wrong then, so why do you care what I thought?”

“That’s a good question, isn’t it?” She taps her chin. “Why do I care?”

I park my hands on my hips. “You tell me.”

She shakes her head and walks toward the rear of the Lambo, then swivels around and paces back. As I snap a tool drawer closed, she enters my line of sight. I straighten, and she’s standing right in front of me, her eyes brimming with red-hot pissed-off-ness.

Fuck the color wheel. She’s a forest fire right now, branches and tree trunks snapping to the ground in a blaze. She bites out the next words. “There’s something I need to say to you.”

I tense because this can’t be good. I lean against the hood of the Challenger. “Say it.”

“Can you stop making insinuations about what I do after hours?”

I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”

She levels a hard stare at me. “You made the boyfriend comment at Thalia’s. You thought I was calling some guy when I was actually peeing and calling my brother. Earlier, you made some sort of insinuation about what I was doing at the Hudson because I have a notepad from the hotel. Are you obsessed with my nighttime activities?”

“No,” I scoff, rolling my eyes for good measure. “I don’t think of what you do at night. Or during the day either.”

It’s a bald-faced lie. I’ve surpassed my recommended daily allowance of thoughts about one woman ever since she returned to town.

“Good. Because you shouldn’t be thinking of what I’m doing.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. My eyes follow her hand, watching every move she makes.

A waft of something that smells like spring apples floats by. Did she spray perfume on her neck when she was in the restroom? My mouth waters, and my pulse pounds in my ears. The woman looks and smells absolutely sexy at five in the evening after working on a car all day—from mechanic to sexpot in one quick restroom trip.

Reality smacks me in the gut. She probably has a date tonight. She’s probably seeing whoever she screwed at the Hudson last night. My jaw tightens. My fists clench.

That’s why she’s laying down the law with me. So I can stay the fuck out of her personal life. And you know what? That’s exactly where I need to be.