“The new Bissara is almost finished. It opens next week, and I want you to see it.”
“You could’ve called.” I slide my feet into gold flip-flips and exit the closet, running fingers through my wet blonde hair.
He watches my approach, his eyes shockingly unguarded and wild, like a snow storm in hell. Then slowly, they dip, tracing my hips, my legs, and lifting to linger on my breasts.
My nipples tighten against the thin fabric, and my chest feels heavy and itchy. “Trace.”
He blinks, shifts his focus to the shrine of Cole pictures on my dresser, and clears his throat. “Are you waiting for your fiancé to return?”
Air whooshes from my lungs, and I clutch the engagement ring that hasn’t moved from my right hand since the night I met Trace.
“I waited for him for a long time.” My chest squeezes with ugly emotion. “He’s not coming back.”
Ask me why, Trace. Make me tell you why I’ve been so lonely.
He stands and breezes out of the room. “Let’s go.”
I flinch, wobbling at his sudden change in mood.
“Go where?” I follow him through the kitchen. “I have plans today.”
“Change them.” He grabs my phone from the counter and hands it to me. “Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t carry a purse, and I’m not changing my plans.” I pull a ponytail holder out of the junk drawer and twist my hair into a knot on my head. “Maybe I’ll swing by the casino later. Maybe I won’t.”
I squeeze by him in the narrow walkway between the counters, pass through the dance studio, and step outside.
“Where are you going?” Blond eyebrows form a V above impatient blue eyes.
“Errands.” I circle the yellow MG Midget and remove the key from the pocket beneath the seat.
His eyes widen, and he flattens a hand to his forehead. “You keep your car key in your car?”
I shrug and unlatch the convertible top, folding it back as the sun beats down on my shoulders.
“Did you even lock up the house?” he asks, exasperated.
“No, Dad. I won’t be gone long.” I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s your house key?”
Under the flower pot beside the door. “I have it.”
As I roll down the windows, he strides inside the house. He’s gone a few seconds, presumably locking the front door, before returning to lock the back door.
My smile comes with a heavy rush of nostalgia. His paranoia is so much like Cole’s. It should be unnerving, but instead I find comfort in it.
“You live minutes from downtown.” He grips the driver’s side door, bending over it to glare down at me. “You’re going to get robbed.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I don’t have anything to steal.” I slide the key into the ignition. “I don’t even own a TV.”
Unless I count the one Cole left behind, which is locked in the basement.
“You have an expensive motorcycle in your dining room,” he says. “And what’s stopping a thief from waiting inside to take you when you return?”
He sounds just like Cole.
I slip on a pair of cat eye sunglasses and drop my head back on the seat. “I need to get to the bank before it closes.”
He straightens, studying me for moment with frustration written across his elegant features. Then he removes an envelope from his suit jacket and offers it to me.
“What’s this?” I clasp it, but he doesn’t let go.
“An advance on your pay.” He still hasn’t released it.
“Afraid I’m going to back out?”
“You didn’t sign the contract.” He relinquishes his grip.
“I told you I’d be there, and I will.” I open the envelope and peek at the check.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, that’s a lot of zeroes. An entire month’s pay. My heart slams against my ribs, and my hands tremble.
“I’ll drive you.” He opens the door.
In the rear-view mirror, I spot a sleek black sedan sitting on the curb. “You mean your driver will take me?”
“Yes.”
“No, thanks.” I pull on the door handle, attempting to shut it.
He pulls back, stopping me. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s a beautiful day. I want the wind on my face.”
Most guys would give in. You want to be a pain in ass? Fine. It’s not worth arguing over. But not Trace. He’s stubborn, confrontational. A man who gets his way.
“Get out.” He opens the door wider. “I’m driving.”
My head jerks up. “You’re driving…this?”
He stares at the tiny spartan interior like he can’t believe he suggested the idea.
I burst into laughter. “What about your perfect hair?”
He blows out a breath and swipes a hand over those sexy textured locks.
“Will you even fit in here?” I’m still laughing, recalling the first time Cole crammed his massive body behind the wheel.
Trace is leaner than Cole, but leg room will be tight. Really tight.
“We’re about to find out.” He plucks me from the seat like I weigh nothing and drops me on the other side of the gear shift.
As I tumble against the passenger door, he reaches beneath the driver’s seat and slides it back with a rusty screech. Then he shrugs out of his suit jacket and looks at the non-existent space behind the seats, as if trying to figure out where to store his designer threads.
“Try the trunk.” I peer at him over the top of my sunglasses, grinning.
One long-legged stride takes him to the rear of the Midget. The trunk groans open.
“You got to be kidding me.” He slams it shut and returns empty-handed.
I slide the envelope into the center console and meet his eyes. “Sometimes I fill the trunk with ice and use it as a cooler for beer.”
“That explains the rust.” He lowers his six-foot-five frame behind the wheel. After a little wriggling and a lot of huffing, he works his knees around the wheel and shuts the door. “This thing is a death trap.”
“If you’re going to complain—”
“Where are we going?” He reaches for the key in the ignition.
I give him the directions to the bank. “You know how to drive a stick?”
He casts me an aggravated look, but beneath the heavy scowl lurks a glimmer of mirth. His disguised smile.
“Be careful, Trace. I might get the impression that you’re having fun.”
“Right.” He latches his seatbelt, waits for me to do mine, then we’re off.
As he backs onto the street and pulls away, the sedan follows behind us.
“Is he going to tail us the whole time?” I kick off the flip-flops and prop my feet on the dash.
“Yes. My driver knows CPR, so he’ll be able to resuscitate us when we get run-over by a Mini Cooper.”
I snort and glance at his face. The almost-smile at the corner of his mouth turns my snort into laughter, and holy shit, he chuckles. It’s a gravelly sound, with a full grin and everything.
What a breathtaking sight. His hair ruffles in the wind, his complexion glowing beneath the sunlight. I might not like him, but my God, I wouldn’t mind scratching all my itches with him. This thing we’re doing, this pushing, pulling, flirty dance is the best foreplay I can remember having in a long time.