Not My Romance

“Are you really sure?” I ask.

He chuckles, his voice deep and genuine. It sounds far more genuine than any of the laughs he shared with Hallie, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

“How many times are you going to ask me that, eh? Yes, come on.”

He turns and strides across the lot to his sleek car. I’ve never been great with makes and models, but it’s jet-black and the windows are tinted, which is why I didn’t spot it in the shadowy corner of the lot.

This must be a freaking dream. Any second I’ll wake up in my apartment, having already driven home.

But the ground feels real as I walk across it. His door handle feels real. His seat feels warm and welcoming as I drop into it.

“I turned on the heated seats,” he says, looking across at me, his jaw suddenly tense.

He looks like a giant as he sits in the car, the steering wheel like a toy in his large hands. The interior light bounces off his captivating green eyes, making him smolder.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. It’s nice.”

I wriggle in the chair, the heating pushing through my pants, against my sex. There’s no way for him to sense how excited he’s making me, is there? He can’t smell my wetness in the air? Right?

The thought is crazy, and yet I can’t stop myself from thinking the question. I squeeze my legs together, but all that does is put pressure on my sex, my clit throbbing and something deep within telling me to reach across and grab onto his leg, slide my hand up… feel how hard I’m making him.

What the heck am I thinking?

I’m not making him hard. He’s just being nice.

“What’s your address, Kyra?” he asks.

I give it to him and for a moment his smirk wavers. It happens quickly, making me wonder if I imagined it.

“I know it’s not the Ritz,” I murmur.

“A home is a home,” he says.

He starts his car by brushing his thumb against the ignition.

“Fancy,” I joke.

He grins over at me, wide, looking so much like a wolf.

Ravage me, you crazy wolf. Tear me to pieces.

The thought comes from that same deep place, the tingling place inside of me that tells me we’re going to have a family together.

We drive in silence for a time. I try to focus on the road and not let my gaze drift endlessly over to him, but it’s a difficult task. It’s like his whole body is made of metal and my gaze is a magnet, snapping to him time and time again.

He grips the steering wheel hard, his muscled forearms pressing through the fabric of his suit jacket. I wonder if I’m imagining that. Maybe it’s just the suit’s fabric shifting as he turns the steering wheel, not his muscles. I have to clench my hands in my lap to stop myself from reaching over to find out.

“I’m sorry about the car,” he says after a few minutes.

“It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“Are you a one-car household?” he asks.

“Yeah, I live alone.”

“How are you going to get to the studio tomorrow?”

I sigh. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Can’t your boyfriend give you a lift?”

My heart gives a flutter, and I look closely at him to see if he’s mocking me. Zadie once told me that whenever a man clumsily asks if you have a boyfriend – like Kayden surely just did – they’re either making fun of you or trying to get you into bed.

But Kayden doesn’t look like he’s mocking me, and the other option is unthinkable.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He nods, and I’m almost certain the corners of his lips twitch, as though he likes that answer. But then the moment is gone and, once again, I’m left wondering if I dreamt the whole thing up, wishing it into existence.

I want to ask about his relationship status, but I can’t think of a way without coming right out and saying it. The thought of that makes me blush preemptively.

But then an idea occurs to me. As we stop at a red light, I clear my throat, summoning my courage.

“Was your girlfriend okay with you doing this show?”

“I’m single too,” he says. “And the show… between you and me, Kyra, it’s a PR thing. My right-hand man – a man I’d trust with my life, hell, I have trusted with my life – told me it would help the business. That’s the only reason I’m doing it.”

“Really?” I murmur. “You and Hallie seemed to be getting on great.”

“It was all for show,” he says, with passion in his voice, as though he’s trying to convince me of it.

But why would he care?

Because he wants you, that voice cries inside of me. Because he needs you. Because he can’t imagine his life without you.

“So you’re not interested in any of them?”