The Hot One(71)

She points her thumb in the general direction of Clint Savage, a burly bearded foul-mouthed motherfucker who kills it with some of the hottest custom rides on the planet. The bastard is talented and prolific. He pumps out kids as often as he makes cars. Well, his wife pumps out the kids. “I’m just booth bitching at Savage Rides,” Henley says.

“Yeah?” That surprises me, but I don’t let on. Henley was never a pretty set of legs and tits at a show. She was under the hood, working on the engine, getting her hands dirty.

She nods and smiles a yes. “He has me pose on top of the cars. We clean up like that.” She snaps her fingers.

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” She runs her eyes up and down my body. Lingers on my chest. Well, my T-shirt. I’m not some ass who parades shirtless at a car show. I save that for when I drive with the top down. No, seriously. Do I look like a douche? I don’t drive shirtless either.

She straightens her spine and stands tall, hopping off the car. “No.” That’s all she says, but that one word comes out exactly like “No, you idiot.”

She fucking hates me still. I sigh. “What are you doing here then at the show?”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m with a client too. You think you’re the only game in town? I run a shop now. Here in New York too.”

I never kept tabs on her since she walked away in a cloud of black smoke, and I figured it was best for me not to stalk her. I needed to stay away from the kind of temptation she brought to my shop every day. “Good for you.”

She sets one hand on her hip and stares at me defiantly. “You really thought I was a booth babe?”

“You said you were here as one,” I say, giving it back to her.

She huffs. “You never thought much of me, did you?”

You don’t want to know the half of it. You don’t want to know how much I thought of you and most of it was vastly inappropriate.

“Henley,” I say, keeping my tone measured, “you were the most talented apprentice I ever worked with. I thought the world of your skills and you know it.”

She sneers, then she pokes me. She stabs her index finger against my chest, her red polished nail scratching me, and instantly stirring up not-safe-for-work fantasies of her nails down my chest then my back. What can I say? I like it rough.

“Actions speak louder than words. And yours make it clear you never thought I was good enough,” she says, and so much for playing it cool. She makes that impossible.

I give it right back to her, letting my gaze drift away from her eyes. Down to her neck then to her shoulder. She follows my path, then I say, “I see you haven’t had that chip removed yet. I know a doctor who can take care of that for you.”

Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. But her voice is even. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to think of you first when I’m ready to take it out, seeing as you’re the reason I have one in the first place.”

Let me revise my assessment. A sexy chip on a fuckhot shoulder. “Glad to know you’re finally giving me credit for something.”

She rolls her eyes. “I gave you all the credit, and you gave me nada.” She curls her thumb and forefinger into an O. “Zilch. Zero.”

“Don’t forget goose egg while you’re at it. Wouldn’t want you to forget another way to describe how I robbed you of all opportunity.”

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I don’t know why I came over here to talk to you.”

“That’s a fascinating question. One I’d love to know the answer to.”

“I don’t know. Call me crazy. But I thought maybe we could have a civilized conversation.”

I laugh sharply. “You did? That’s why you inserted yourself into a conversation with a potential client with your tiger comment?”

She wrenches back. “It was supposed to be funny.” For once, her tone sounds hurt, like I’ve wounded her. “You used to tease me when I got all worked up about something. You called me tiger.”

The memory smashes back into me. She’s right. She’s fucking right. I blink, remembering a time when she was pissed at herself over a struggle with a transmission tunnel that nicked her left hand, and I said, “Easy, tiger,” before I moved in and helped her, showing her how to do it without slicing her finger off.

She thanked me in the sweetest voice, and then I put a Band-Aid on the cut.

She shrugs her shoulders in an I-give-up gesture, and I realize I’m letting her wind me up. This woman was the most fiery, spirited person I’ve ever worked with, but I can’t let her get under my skin, or make me want to put Band-Aids on her when she can damn well do it herself. I need a new approach, especially if we’re running in the same circles.

“See you later, Max.”

She turns to go, but I grab her arm. “Wait.” My voice is gentler now. “Tell me what you’re up to now.”

“Building cars.”

“I figured that much from what you said. What’s your specialty?”

The corner of her lips curve up in a smile as she moves closer. So damn close I can smell her sweet breath, and I’m half wondering how she smells so good at four in the afternoon, like cinnamon candy. But then, that was one of her many talents. Smelling good, looking good, working hard. “The kind I would have made with you if you’d have let me,” she says and steps one inch closer. So close I could kiss her cinnamon lips. “They’re called . . . the best.”