Black Lies(51)

He stood in front of the fridge, a hand on the top, his eyes skimming, the float of cool air frosting through the space. “You have nothing,” he announced.

“It’s full. That hardly constitutes as nothing.”

“No beer. No junk food. No ice cream. I could eat every bite in this fridge and lose weight.” He shut the door, sauntered into the living room. “Let’s go grab dinner.”

“Now?” I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost nine.”

“Which is why I’m hungry. That pathetic excuse for dinner we ate four hours ago didn’t count.”

I rolled my eyes. The ‘pathetic excuse for dinner’ was foie gras. It was Brant’s favorite dish. I should have known, in this complicated scenario of conflicts, that Lee would hate it. “Fine.” I stood, tossing the remote down on the sofa. “I’ll go change.”

“Uh uh. You’re fine.” He grabbed my elbow, steered me towards the door.

I glanced down at my jeans. “Where are we going?”

“Let’s just drive. There’s got to be somewhere around here that’s got the game.”

I stepped out, grabbing my keys off the counter and pressing the button for the garage, my pull on the front door pausing when I saw Lee, standing in the driveway. His head was turned toward the garage, the full range of cars slowly revealed as the doors swept up.

I yanked the door shut, stepping down the front steps in time to hear his low whistle. “Damn, Lucky. I might start f*cking this guy.”

I moved past him, irritation sweeping through me. “I do have my own money. Not everything is from Brant.” A ridiculous defense to say to Lee, made more so by the fact that three of the four cars were gifts from Brant. I stepped toward my Mercedes, my everyday car, his hand reaching out and stopping my movement. “Let’s take the black one.”

I came to a sudden stop, whipping my head to him. “The black one?” I stalled.

The black one in question was a 2004 Land Rover Defender. It was the only car in the garage I’d paid for, traded my last vehicle in on it. And, as awkward as this situation now was, I purchased it as a gift for Brant. Wanted to, in some small way, repay him for the gifts he had a tendency to lavish.

Unfortunately for me, Brant hadn’t been a fan of the vehicle. In the brutally honest fashion that I loved, he had told me as soon as I had handed over the keys.

“SUVs aren’t really my thing.” He held the key awkwardly, glancing from it, to the black vehicle, and then to me, a sheepish look coming over his face. “I don’t like the insecurity of them. And the IIHS safety rating placed them in the worst classification for risk of rollover. The—”

“It’s okay.” I smiled at him. Reached out and took the key back. “I should have asked.”

“I just don’t need a vehicle I won’t drive.” He leaned over, looped a hand around my waist and kissed the top of my head. “You mind?”

Mind? I had stared blankly at the truck, a good ten grand of depreciation occurring in the two days since I had signed the bill of sale. I looked up at him. Let him bend down and kiss me. “No babe. I’m glad you told me.”

A BSX employee had driven the vehicle to my house, where it had spent most of its life in the garage. Now, Lee was in my driveway about to come over the damn thing. I took a few slow steps in the direction of the keypad. Lifted the Defender’s keys from the box and handed them to Lee.

“Here. You drive.”

He snatched the keys without acknowledgement, jumping into the vehicle, his hands running over the leather-wrapped steering wheel and adjusting knobs and settings, the roar of the engine loud in the garage. I watched him warily. Waited for him to pull out of the enclosed space before walking around to the passenger side. Stepped up and into the five thousand pound vehicle of pure masculinity. The vehicle that Lee seemed made for, his frame loose and in control, his hand gripping the shifter with a comfortable ease.

This was exactly what I imagined when I bought the truck. And maybe that’s why I bought it. Maybe I was trying to take my genius and dump him into a tub of masculinity and danger. Roughen up his smooth edges. I fastened my seatbelt and swallowed my side of guilt.

With the squeal of tires, Lee pulled out through my gates.

Ten minutes later, the blare of the radio competing with the whip of wind, I hit Lee’s arm and pointed. “There.” In the shopping center, a sports bar. Lee followed my hand, whipping the truck into a spot and hopping out, his hand resting on the side of the Defender a little longer than necessary, a bit of longing in his eyes.