I swallow hard.
I wanted something different. Daring. Dangerous.
“I’ll let it go this time,” I tell him. My voice sounds a little raspy from disuse.
Who am I? I don’t flirt. I’m not witty. Yet the words fly off my tongue as if a stranger says them. “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me.”
I step toward the car, but before I can open my door, Mr. Tall and Handsome puts it in park, launches his tall, muscular frame out of the body of the car, and quickly reaches for my door handle. He moves with the grace of a dancer, seductive vibes rolling off him like a lover, and right then, I’d empty my wallet in the back of his car just for a kiss from him.
“Now, you know better than to open your own door, doll,” he chides in a way that makes heat rise in my chest. I’d do wicked things if he asked me to in that voice. “My mother would kick my ass for not behaving like a gentleman.”
Doll. Gentleman.
Oh, I like that. All of it. For one brief moment, we’ve stepped back in time.
He has a mother that cares about him. I think I like that. Is that just part of the pickup line, though?
He opens the door and gestures for me to take a seat.
The interior of the car’s wrapped in luxury leather. It’s buttery smooth and soft to the touch, lending a decadent, pleasant scent to the air around us.
What am I doing?
Mmm. I take in a shuddering breath as he trots back to his side and folds his long, tall frame into the seat beside me.
I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know where he’s from. And for the first time in my life, I like that.
I watch as he kicks the car into gear, and we take off.
I observe everything I can. It’s my job.
Now that we’re this close, I can tell he’s definitely Italian, but his accent’s faintly tinged with Boston, so likely born here. Dark brown hair, ruggedly styled, definitely mussed by the wind but it looks intentional… sexy. Tanned olive skin, and since it’s March in New England, either he’s gone to a tanning salon, or he’s spent some time in a warmer climate recently. He seems way too masculine for tanning, so my bet’s on option two. It’s getting dark, but I can tell his eyes are so blue they nearly shine in the darkness. Most of the Italian men I’ve met have darker eyes, but blue’s not out of the ordinary. Blue eyes likely mean he’s from Northern Italy, then. Genoa, Milan, Tuscany.
I want to look deeper into those eyes.
The rugged cut of his jaw, shadowed with casually masculine stubble, is offset by an almost boyish pair of lips that look like he’s perpetually smiling. Something tells me he can pull off a scowl that would make me melt. Jesus, those lips… A faint rose color paints his cheeks. His perfectly symmetrical face, the way he holds himself, makes him look like Mustang hired him for a two-page spread in a racing magazine.
The cut of his clothes suggests wealth. Paired with the car, that’s a no-brainer. A quick glance tells me the Mustang is a custom job.
His phone’s mounted on his dash, but even though it’s off, it’s plugged in and on. So either he’s someone that doesn’t like to be disconnected, or he’s someone who’s expected to be on call. Interesting. The screen’s clean, free of smudges, but it’s a smallish phone.
The car’s impeccably clean, not a fleck of dust or crumpled paper or empty Subway package in sight, yet from where I’m sitting I can see flecks of mud on the hood.
He was driving fast, then. Maybe even racing fast. A car like this was built for speed.
I glance casually behind us and note a black leather jacket folded over the seat, but there’s nothing else to note in the car.
Wrong.
My heart gives a quick thud when I glance again at the jacket. It’s hidden, and it’s discreet, but he’s hiding a handgun.
This boy—no, man—is trouble with a capital T.
“How long have you been waiting?” he asks. Fuck it, that voice is sin personified. Sex on the rocks.
“Oh,” I shrug quietly. My voice is a little shaky now that I’ve seen the gun. Weapons don’t scare me. Half a second with that beauty in the palm of my hand and I could make it purr for me. But for a brief moment in time, I’d wanted to believe he was a good man.
Maybe he is.
But could a good man handle a girl like me?
And does that matter?
“I mean… a while.”
Normal people would either ask for a name or offer theirs at this point, but I have no interest in doing either. And thankfully, he doesn’t seem interested either.