‘You look...’ he breaks off, his fingers upsetting his well-coiffed hair so that my fingers no longer have to, though the fantasy of it persists ‘...great.’
‘Thank you.’
He doesn’t move and I play with the clutch in my hand. ‘So...should we...you know...go?’
He snaps into action, so quickly I have to swallow another impulsive laugh. Because, truth is, I’m not amused by his temporary stupor, I’m flattered, more flattered than is safe for my heart that is always too eager to please. I’ve gone too many years caring about what everyone else thinks, about what everyone else wants. And I don’t want to care like that again.
He walks past me and I follow, enjoying the way his fresh cologne hangs in the air between us, the way his broad shoulders feel like a protective shield of sorts. Nathan wasn’t small by any means, but he wasn’t as broad or as muscular as Valentine so obviously is and as I’m behind him I get to enjoy it right up until the moment he turns... My brows lift, my smile feeling too wide to be natural as I mask my wayward thoughts.
He pulls open the door, his eyes not quite reaching mine as he gestures. ‘After you...’
‘Thank you.’
I flick the latch as I pass and keep on going. I don’t trust myself not to do something foolish when I’m too close to him. Like jump his bones right on my doorstep or, worse, admit to my lack of a social circle, admit that I’m lonely, that I don’t want to be tied to another, led around by another, but neither do I want to live like this.
‘Do you need to lock up?’ he calls after me.
‘No, the latch will get it.’
He pulls the door closed and comes up behind me before I can even reach the garden gate, his arm sweeping in front of me to open it.
I smile up at him. ‘Can’t cope with a woman opening her own gate?’
He chuckles low in his throat. ‘It’s not sexist, before you say it; it’s chivalrous.’
‘Quite the knight in shining armour.’
‘If you want to see me that way.’
We’re so close now. Almost chest to chest. And that voice, it’s so low, so gruff... What would it feel like to have it rumble directly over my sex-starved clit?
I swallow a squeak as my thighs clench, my exposed nether regions tingling in a swift breeze.
‘You okay?’ His brows lift, a smile playing about his lips. Busted.
‘Yes,’ I blurt, stepping onto the pavement. ‘Where are you parked?’
But he’s already gesturing to a shiny black...
No. This cannot be his car. The brand. Him. The two just don’t go together.
My lips twitch. ‘That’s your car?’
He eyes me. ‘Yes.’
‘But the brand?’
‘And?’
I look at him, step towards the car, look at him again. ‘Do you know how many PR specialists I’ve met over the years, men who think their car is an extension of them, and not one of them has driven one of these?’
‘No?’ To my relief he smiles. I don’t want to offend him, but I can’t contain my surprise. Every PR specialist, every marketer, publicist, whatever, with pockets as deep as I’m sure Valentine has, drives something flash. Even at the most conservative end of the scale it’s been a slick four-by-four. An expensive muscle car. But this...it’s...normal.
And Valentine is far from normal.
He unlocks it. ‘You going to continue staring at it, or get in?’
I laugh and pull open the door, climb inside and watch as he slips into the driver’s seat beside me.
‘Is this your only car, or do you have a toy for weekends? For fun?’
He shakes his head as he fastens his seatbelt and starts the engine.
‘Come on, you have to admit this car is a bit...unexpected?’
He pulls out into the traffic, his laugh as deep as his voice. ‘Unexpected?’
‘Yes. Someone like you, working in the glitzy world of PR, it doesn’t stack up.’
‘So you’re stereotyping me?’
I chew my lip. I guess I am.
‘And I’m not being flashy enough?’
‘Oh, to look at you’re plenty flash.’ And I am looking, my eyes drinking in his frown of concentration as he navigates the busy streets of London. His hair’s back in pristine condition, his made-to-measure suit and Rolex watch as flash as they come. ‘But your car...’
‘I’ll have you know this car is one of the best in its class. Safe. Reliable—’
‘Boring.’
His eyes flick to me. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No...’ I consider him long and hard, imagine him out of his suit in some casual wear, in a pub, on a beach, eating fish and chips on a street corner...no, not him. ‘What do you do to wind down?’
His brows pinch together as he sends me another look. ‘Wind down?’
‘Yes! You know, how do you fill your spare time? What do you get up to at weekends? I know you don’t drink so partying is out.’
‘You can party well enough without alcohol.’
The strength of his statement is jarring, but he’s right though. ‘True,’ I say but internally I’m filing away his reaction for future examination. ‘And do you?’
His brows lift. ‘Party?’
‘Not just party, wind down, chill out...’
I look to the road ahead and the speed limit sign, sneak a look at the speedometer and suppress a tickled smile that he is a notch below. He drives like my late grandad with his specs and his cataracts—God rest his soul.
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Stuff.’
‘Stuff?’ Now I do laugh and it’s soft with fascination. ‘Sounds thrilling.’
‘Just because I don’t need to tear it up on a racetrack, risk my life on a mountain cliff, it doesn’t make me boring.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘You said boring.’
‘No, I said your car was boring. But then I love my cars, so you have to forgive me that one.’
‘Right.’ He nods, looks out of his driver’s window before going back to the road with a surprising smile on his face.
‘I mean it. In fact, I think you’re a
