I Like Being Watched

"Good."

"So, you'll drive it."

"Well, not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because I have my car here," she said, shrugging.

"I will get it towed back to your place."

"What? No."

"It's done," I said, already reaching for the phone.

"Um, no. No, it's not done."

"Hi, yes. I need my car towed," I said into my phone, cutting off her objection. She stood there in pensive silence as I finished the phone call. "There," I declared when I was done. "All handled. Happy?"

"I don't understand," Wynn admitted.

"It's not complicated. You have a more reliable car to drive, so I can depend on you to continue to do your job to my satisfaction."

"But..."

"But nothing."

"Mr. Buchanan—" she started, making a frustrated sigh escape me.

"Mr. Buchanan?" I asked, brow raising in a way that said Aren't we beyond that?

"Fitz," she said instead, voice a little airless.

I had her off-kilter.

And I liked it more than I should have, given the situation.

I could probably have approached her then, demanded an explanation for the change in her behavior since we'd had sex. But something inside me said this was the better way to play it. Keep her confused and surprised. I would get more from her that way.

Maybe I'd even get some answers.

Maybe I'd get her to agree to be more than just a fuck-buddy.

What?

No.

I didn't do more than casual encounters.

Even as I tried to remind myself of that fact, though, there was another part of me that was screaming that I wanted more than a few weeks of teasing and one fuck, that I wanted more than the physical in general.

What the hell was that about?

"Are you done for the night?" I asked, hearing the roughness in my tone as my mind went to battle with itself.

"Ah, yeah."

"Head on out. The car is in the first garage," I told her.

"Right," she agreed nodding, then turning, starting to walk away before turning back. "Mr... Fitz," she said, catching herself.

"Yes?"

"Thank you," she said, looking even more confused than before.

"You're welcome."

And with that, she was gone, leaving me with my swirling thoughts to keep me company for the rest of the night.

Hours later, I was no closer to coming to any sort of rational understanding about my confusing feelings for Wynn.

But I did know one thing.

I wanted more.

And I was going to do whatever it took to get that.

Fourteen

Wynn

He gave me a car.

Well, I mean, not technically.

But, also, he had.

It was mine in everything but title, but I didn't have to do anything to pay for it, to maintain it, or even to fuel it up.

It was a black BMW 7-Series with the kind of grill and rims that any casual passerby knew it was expensive. And after a quick Google search, I nearly choked on my own spit to see a price tag of almost ninety-thousand.

Ninety-Thousand.

For a car.

That he wasn't even going to drive.

I almost marched right back into the house to hand him back the fancy touchscreen key fob before words of much wiser persons than myself crossed my mind.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Why shouldn't I take it if he was offering it? I had it in writing that nothing that happened to it would impact me.

On that thought, I unlocked the door, opening it to find a fancy tan and black interior that made me think I'd never be able to drink my morning coffee in it on the way to work anymore for fear of staining the buttery smooth leather.

I had the irrational urge to slide off my shoes before I climbed in, but just barely managed to fight it off as I got in, closed the door, and reached for the push ignition, hearing it purr to life.

And, glory of glories, after maybe only two minutes of cold air blasting out of the vents, hot air danced around my face and hair.

"This is like a spaceship," I declared to the car as I eyed the touchscreen command center. "Oh, no way," I gasped, pressing my finger against the screen where it claimed I not only had heated seats, but a heated steering wheel and armrests as well.

Sure enough, within a minute or two, my butt, thighs, arms, and hands were all toasty warm, and I was seriously considering giving up my art dreams to become a venture capitalist or something because, well, I suddenly decided I could not live without heated seats, armrests, and steering wheels for the rest of my life.

On that note, though, I adjusted the seat and mirrors, then hit the button clipped to the visor for the garage, and backed out past my somewhat trusty beater, feeling a bit guilty driving past it in such luxury.

The whole road home, I refused to let my mind wander past enjoying the way nothing rattled and no lights lit up my dashboard.

But after I got home, locked up the fancy new car, and went up into my apartment, there was no stopping the flooding of thoughts that assaulted me all at once.