Seeing no one, he asks, “You ready for your lesson?”
“Almost.”
Neil comes strutting down the hall then in last night’s jeans and trendy T-shirt, leather ankle boots in hand. He appears too dishevelled for his clothes to look like they’re fresh this morning. I may have fallen asleep a couple of times on his outfit.
“Sorry. You guys waiting for me?” Neil walks up to Keats with his right hand extended. In similar outfits again and finally next to each other, I ignore the niggle in my mind that I have a type. “Hi, I’m Neil. You must be Keats.”
Keats looks preoccupied as he shakes the hand of my, well, I don’t know what Neil is. I can almost hear Keats’ brain ticking as his gaze clocks Neil’s wet hair and mine. His silence is disconcerting and makes me wonder what exactly he’s thinking.
“The Booty Call guy,” Keats finally says though now I wish he’d just remained flummoxed by the fact my made-up man is actually half-dressed in my home.
“And you’re the Home Wrecker,” Neil says with an easy smile that is difficult to take offence with. He sits himself down on a dining chair and quickly pulls on his shoes. Keats and I watch Neil who seems the most relaxed of the three of us.
“Ready,” he announces, getting to his feet.
“I’m ready, too.” I usher both of them out of my flat which suddenly feels even smaller and dingier with two big, classy men in it.
We walk down the flight of steps to the tenant car park in silence, me in front, Neil behind me and Keats trailing at the back. Keats’ Audi is waiting for us next to Neil’s Porsche SUV, and I wonder again—like I did last night—how I am rubbing elbows with guys with too much money to burn on fancy cars. Lucky for me, I know now that it’s not a Freudian replacement for Neil. And after perving at Keats in his Speedos, I know his shiny toy isn’t making up for anything either.
“Nice car, man.” Neil indicates the slick coupe as the three of us stop by the luxury vehicles. “I was thinking of getting that, but not enough room for my snowboard.”
Keats just flicks up his expressive brows, determined to be a terse arsehole.
Neil turns to me, placing his hands on the swell of my hips. “Thanks for last night.”
Over his shoulders, I notice Keats rubbing at imagined smudges on his precious car while he avoids looking at us. Neil leans in, blocking my view of my driving instructor, and touches his lips to mine with gentle pressure, then angles his head to deepen the kiss while he grabs a handful of my butt. He’s smiling when he pulls away, probably at the goofy expression on my face after that breathtaking kiss.
“I’ll ‘booty call’ you later,” he tells me, voice loud like he wants Keats to hear him. Neil winks at me, the gesture invisible to the guy behind him, before getting into his Porsche and driving away.
“You coming?” Keats asks me before he slips into the passenger seat of his low sports car.
I bite my tongue as a dozen puns zip around my head. Grinning to myself, I get behind the wheel, and strap myself in. I turn in my seat when Keats doesn’t tell me to drive. He’s reclined in the bucket seat, arms crossed in front of him, jaw flexing.
“What?”
“If you’re not going to be ready, Hay-gen, you should call,” he says.
My hackles instantly rise. Talk about ruining my post-coital glow. “This from Mr Late-all-the-bloody-time?” I check my watch. “We made plans for eight. It’s ten past eight.”
He opens his mouth to retort, but shuts it again, his jaw working like he’s grinding his teeth.
“Just drive,” he says through a tight mouth.
Starting up the car, I adjust the seat and mirrors, now a well-practised routine. I shift the car into reverse and look out the back window, foot easy on the accelerator.
Keats remains gruff and brusque for the rest of the drive. “Change lanes.” “Turn there.” “Indicate.” “Head check.”
And thirty minutes later, we’re back in my car park.
“Stop here.” His tone remains flat, hand out for his car keys.
“That’s it?” We’ve been going for an hour recently. I turn the engine off but hang on to the slimline key. “You said last week I get to drive on the highway today.”
“You’re not ready.”
I cross my arms in front of me and glare at him. “Bullshit, I’m not.”
“It’s my call. Maybe next week. Give me the keys.”
“Why don’t you stop being a bitch, and just say why you’ve really got your knickers in a knot?”
“Just give me the damn keys.”
I study his face and the stiff set of his jaw. Gorgeous bastard looks good whatever his expression. It’s very frustrating.
I huff, shaking my head. “Don’t take it out on me just because I’m getting some and you’re not. Why don’t you treat yourself to an orgasm? I highly recommend it.” I exit the vehicle, trying to pull myself out of the bucket seat with as much grace as I can, considering how low and tight it is in there. It takes all my self-control not to slam his precious door. I hear Keats exit the vehicle behind me, his door shuts and his footsteps near.
“Hay-gen.”
“Come back when you’re normal,” I call over my shoulder.
A firm but gentle hand wraps around my wrist.
“What?”
“You still have my keys.” His tone is soft and when I look into his blue eyes, there’s a crinkle at the corners.
My lips twitch in response and a grin slowly cracks his features. We share a tentative laugh that breaks the tension.
“This is crazy,” he says, patting his own cheek twice like he’s trying to wake himself up. “You have anything for breakfast?”
“Bran.”
He makes a face. “I don’t do bran. The health benefits don’t outweigh the high TLS factor.”
“TLS?”
“Tastes like shit.”
I chuckle.
“Got anything else?”
“Nope.”
He grabs my wrist again
