Full Package(36)
“You can’t handle this much manliness, can you?”
He puffs out his chest, the intricate Celtic tats on his pec and the tribal bands on his arms on full display.
I roll my eyes. “Let’s just say I see more bodies naked in a day than you can even imagine, and though most aren’t vying for Centerfold of the Month, yours still ranks as the one I least want to see bare.”
In a flurry, Max wraps an arm around me and puts me in a headlock.
Fuck, I forgot how strong he is. His muscle-bound bicep ropes tighter around me, and he digs his knuckles into my head, reminding me how he’s the master at noogies.
“Say you love me best,” Max commands, his voice deep. “My bare chest especially.”
I wince as his grip tightens. I refuse to give in. “Never,” I grunt.
“You sure?” His knuckles might, just might, be penetrating my skull now. He’s sweaty, too. Crap. I have to give in.
Nope. I can’t give in.
“I love you but not your chest,” I say between stilted breaths.
The punishment deepens. He squeezes harder. Airflow becomes a debatable item in my life. I have no choice. “And your stupid chest,” I mutter.
“My chest isn’t stupid.”
His hold on me turns pincer-grip style, but his skin is sweaty from work, and with one quick twist I break free, then dart out from his grip. Thrusting both hands in the air, I strut across the asphalt. “And speed beats brawn,” I tease.
Max just shakes his head at me as he strides inside the garage and grabs a black T-shirt from his messy desk, strewn with papers and tools.
He tugs the shirt on and wipes his brow. He returns to the small lot. “And the answer is—this baby is a cool five hundred K,” he says, running his hand lovingly along the exterior of the car.
I whistle. “Damn. What have you Frankensteined together here?”
“It’s a souped-up Lambo, and get this—” His dark brown eyes gleam with excitement. “Got a call earlier today about custom outfitting a car for RBC network for a new show where the hero is like a modern-day Magnum, P.I.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say, clasping his hand in a congratulatory shake. “That’s awesome.”
“It’ll be a blast and it should do wonders for business,” he says and mimes an explosion with his hands. Max’s business is already killing it, and he’s got several celebrity clients as well as plenty of under-the-radar high-rollers. “But this kind of deal could be huge for publicity.”
“You are a rock star,” I say, no joking, no teasing this time. “You ready to ride?”
“Always,” he says, since we’re scheduled for a training ride before I head home. Josie has her soccer league tonight, so I’m not sure when I’ll see her.
He heads inside to grab his road bike, and while he’s gone my phone beeps.
I grab it from my back pocket.
* * *
Josie: Game over. We crushed the competition.
* * *
Chase: Because you’re fucking fierce on the field.
* * *
Josie: That might be true. :) Okay, catching the subway. Heading home. How was your day?
* * *
Before I tap out a reply, I answer the question in my head. My day was fucking amazing. My day was fantastic. My day was the best ever. Because of last night.
But more so, because of where I want to be right now.
Where she is.
I drop the mic.
That’s it.
Everything’s clear.
I know. I just fucking know.
She’s the one I want to spend the rest of this day with. She’s the one I want to talk to about my good days and my bad days. She’s more than my roommate. She’s more than one of my best friends. She’s the one I want every day. I have no clue what happens after tonight, but I need tonight with her to start right the fuck now.
When Max rolls out on his bike, I point my thumb across town. “I gotta bail.”
“What?” he asks, like this doesn’t compute.
“You were right.”
“I always am. But about what this time?”
“Just say I told you so. Just go ahead and say it.”
“I told you so?” he tosses out quizzically.
“You did. And I have to go see Josie. Wait. No. Correction. I want to go see Josie.”
Max snickers and shoots me the biggest I-told-you-so grin in the history of facial expressions.
I shrug. What can you do? Then I go to the only place I want to be.
The diagnosis I was trying to piece together last night? All the symptoms point to one malady.
I’ve got it bad for this girl. I’ve got a textbook condition of a classic illness. I’m suffering from a motherfucking case of falling in love.
And I’m not ready to take a pill to cure it.
21
It’s a scene ripped straight from a fantasy I never knew I had. But it’s so incredibly enticing that the vision in front of me has shot straight up the ranks.
We’re talking the Pantheon of dirty images, and it’s not even filthy.
Yet.
Josie’s in the kitchen, wearing an apron and heels. Her hair is twisted in a bun with a chopstick stabbed through it. A home-cooked meal sits cooling on the rack on the stovetop. I’ve never had naughty housewife fantasies, but I think I might now.