Joy Ride

She turns to go, but I grab her arm. “Wait.” My voice is gentler now. “Tell me what you’re up to these days.”


“Building cars.”

“I figured that much from what you said. What’s your specialty?”

The corner of her lips curves up in a smile as she moves closer—so damn close I can smell her sweet breath, and I’m half wondering how she smells so good at four in the afternoon, like cinnamon candy. But then, that was one of her many talents. Smelling good, looking good, working hard. “The kind of car I would have made with you if you’d have let me,” she says and steps one inch closer. So close I could kiss her cinnamon lips. “They’re called . . . the best.”

She spins on a heel and walks away.

I should call out after her. I should try harder to smooth over the past. But I’m better off letting her go. She’s far too dangerous, even though a part of me likes playing with fire.

That part of me needs to stay the fuck away from a woman like her.





3





“Smell this.”

My sister, Mia, slides a vial under my nose.

I’m transported from the kitchen counter in my penthouse apartment in Battery Park to a tropical island. “Pineapple with a hint of coconut.”

“And what else?”

My eyes are closed. She wanted me to wear a blindfold, but that’s not going to happen. Ever. I sniff one more time. “Mango.”

The vial clinks as it hits the counter, and she claps. “You still officially have the best nose in the history of noses.”

I open my eyes. “Do I get a gold star for my olfactory system?”

She smiles brightly, her straight, white teeth gleaming. “You win the prize for being one of the two most amazing brothers I have.”

“Wow. That’s quite an honor, seeing as you only have two brothers.”

“And they’re both adorable,” she says with a glint in her hazel eyes.

I glare at her. “I’m not cute.”

She winks. “You’ll always be cute to me.”

I growl. “You’re lucky I don’t put you in a chokehold like I’d do to Chase.”

Mia leans her blond head back and laughs. “You couldn’t keep me in a chokehold. I’d slip out because I’m fast and nimble. Besides, you like me too much.”

She’s right. How could I not? She’s the baby of the family, and she’s also literally the most adorable person on earth. She’s the size of a gymnast, and she packs the same punch pound for pound. Probably because she was a gymnast growing up. She twisted her body into some serious pretzel shapes on the balance beam and floor when she was in grade school and junior high, earning medals in all sorts of competitions. Now she’s twenty-seven and an entrepreneur. She’s staying with me for the week while she’s in town for meetings, trying to land some new distribution deals for her line of cruelty-free beauty supplies.

I tip my head to the vial on the counter. “What’s the story with your newest concoction?”

“My chemists whipped it up. It’s a face wash, and we want to market it to men. I need to work on just the right angle when it comes to the messaging, but do you think a guy would like it?”

“A guy who wants to smell like fruit.” I head to the fridge to grab a beer.

She swats my arm before I open the door. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. And look, I’ve been known to fall in love with a pineapple and want to spend the night with a coconut, but no, I wouldn’t use this.”

“Max.”

“It smells great, and I’m sure your customers who have breasts will love it. But why are you even trying to market it to men? If you want a dude to use a face wash, just make it smell like the ocean or the woods or whatever we’re supposed to like, according to the great commercial wisdom of the world.” I wave a hand at the glass vial. “But we don’t need to smell like a tropical Popsicle stand.” I take a pause. “Though, for the record, I’d absolutely stop and get a Popsicle at such a stand.”

“I’m trying to market to men because I want it all.” She bangs a tiny fist on the counter. “I want to market face wash to the penis-owning population, too, the same way car makers want to sell autos to people with vaginas. Don’t you have any clients with vaginas?”

“You will never not love saying that word to me or to any man, will you?”

She shakes her head as her eyes glint. “Vagina, vagina, vagina. Now answer the question.”

“Do I have any clients with vaginas?”

She gives me an I’m-so-proud-of-you look. “Yes. Do you?”

As I grab a bottle of porter, I consider her question, and one of my favorite clients comes to mind. “A few. Like Livvy Sweetwater. I need to take her Rolls home to her later this week.”

“And how do you market to the Livvy Sweetwaters of the world?”

I shrug. “I just market the cars.”

She mimes slamming her hand on a buzzer. “Wrong. You sell the sleekness. You sell the safety. You focus on the luxury. Women love luxuries. So do men. And I know you like your little luxuries, Mr. Tough Guy. You used the bath bombs I sent you the other week. I saw some missing from the cabinet. The lemongrass. And the coconut.”

“Hey!” I bring my finger to my lips and shush her.

“Oh, who’s listening?”

“No one. Not when you tell such blatant lies.”

“I never lie. And I never tell your secrets. For instance, if you ever finally fall in love, I’ll never let on that you have a soft side,” she says, then covers her mouth and laughs.

“One, I won’t fall in love. And two, I don’t have a soft side.”

“Your heart is a soft pillow, and you will absolutely fall in love someday.”

Shaking my head, I take a long swallow of my beer then ask Mia if I can do anything else to help her prep for her meetings.

She nods excitedly. “Will you come shopping with me? Pretty please? I want to look for a new sweater for tomorrow.”

“Anything but that.”

“Oh, come on.”

I knock back more of the beer. “I’m allergic to shopping.”

“I’ll take you out for burgers after.” She dangles that tempting offer in front of me.

My ears perk up.

She seizes the opening, nudging me and grabbing the beer bottle. She drops it in the sink, hands me my wallet and keys, and grabs her purse.

I’ve never been good at saying no to my sister, so thirty minutes later, I’m parked on a pink chair outside the dressing room in a West Village boutique as Mia tries on clothes, showing me a sweater, then a shirt, then a royal-blue top before she returns to the small room to change.

As I wait, I fiddle on my phone, and I swear this isn’t what it looks like.

This isn’t me stalking Henley Rose.

I’m not trying to find every detail on her.

It’s not her photos I’m staring at in Google images. It’s not her face I see as she fixes up a Ferrari, looking like a scientist about to split the atom. It’s simply the photo of a focused woman who happens to detest a particular guy. A woman who claims I didn’t give her a fair shot.