Layers(17)

Hey Hayley,

Thanks again for today. How about a movie tomorrow?

DS

Daniel Stark is asking me to the movies? I hate the fact that I’m elated, just like a besotted teenager. I shouldn’t be. I know with every sensible cell of my being that he’s a highway straight to heartbreakville. Isn’t the plan just to get physical with him, emotions aside?



Hey Daniel,

Depends on the movie …

H

I hug my pillow, willing myself to fall asleep, when I hear the ping of an incoming email. I’m surprised since it’s late—early depending on how I look at it. And there it is in bold letters, an instant reply from DS.



Hey H,

So it’s not about the company, it’s about the movie?

Hurt & Disappointed,

DS

I immediately text a reply.



Dear Hurt & Disappointed DS,

What are you doing up? Don’t you have an intriguing and professional business to run tomorrow a.m.?

H

I press send and sink my head back to the pillow, smiling. I flinch at the unexpected chime of my phone.

“I do well with just a few hours of sleep, so rest assured, H, I will not by any means compromise my ability to perform in any given situation.” Daniel’s hoarse voice echoes in my ear. I’m glad to hear that, since I have a very important situation for you in mind. One in which you just can’t fail to perform.

“Hello,” I stress my greeting. “Have you lost your impeccable manners? And I am glad to hear that you won’t fail to perform,” I tease, snuggling deeper under my thick, fresh-scented blanket.

Avoiding any further small talk and disregarding my last comment, he bluntly asks, “Do you want to meet me now?”

“Sure, why not.” The words fly out of my mouth without thinking. Where did that come from?

“I can pick you up in ten. The roads are open at this hour. Shouldn’t take long, okay?”

“Pick me up and go where, Daniel?” I ask, now reconsidering what I’ve just impulsively agreed to.

“We’ll see, in ten.” And he’s gone.

What did I just agree to? I need to think, for the love of god, especially with him. I’ll need to have a direct vein infusion of caffeine in the morning if I plan to work on my drawings. Well, that’s the price a girl should pay for meeting good-looking, rich, deliciously-scarred industrialists in the middle of the night. I put on my blue jeans with a tight white tee and my black hoodie, then quickly brush my teeth and try to make some sort of amends with my sleep-flattened waves. I grab two bottles of sparkling water from the fridge, squeeze my feet into the red sneakers which were left in our hallway and, content after a glimpse at the mirror, I lock the door behind me. I skip every other step, going down the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator. I should not be this thrilled. Highway to heartbreakville …

~~~

I’m thankful that I took my hoodie with me; it gets quite chilly in these wee hours of the morning. I hug myself to warm up, falling deep into memories of my encounters with Daniel. I think about how charming he is, in his rough, witty way. The way he treated me in that awful interview infiltrates my positive thoughts, though in a small part of my mind I think I deserved some of it. And of course there was his mercurial temperament and his mood change after a single call that are so hard to overlook. Some sort of a warning sign, perhaps. But all in all, I’m glad to have yet another chance to spend time with him, get to know him better. He intrigues me as much as I’m attracted to him, two sufficient reasons to keep exploring.

A loud mechanical growl brings me back to the present. I turn to face the direction of the roar, astounded by the mean machine responsible for the mechanical/animalistic sound. The wide, low, metallic silver sports car, which I am definitely not familiar with, is equally wild and exotic. Just like its owner.

Daniel steps out to greet me, casual yet exquisite in faded jeans and a long-sleeved, gray fitted Henley. I reach out my hand toward him for a shake, but he ignores it and pulls me into an unexpected hug. I awkwardly return his embrace, my hands trapped under his firm grip, and I end up holding his waist. Realizing I am patting him, I stop immediately. What am I, his aunt?

For too short a time I get to enjoy the feel of his toned body against mine, his hands wrapping me, and to inhale his scent, which is so captivating. I find myself lured to it in an irresistible pull, wanting more. Discreetly, I take one more lungful just before we break our embrace.

I’m forced to bend down in order to get inside the car; it’s even lower than it appears to be. “Nice car. What make is it?” I ask as I snuggle into the comfy leather seat.

His eyes light up in response. “It’s a Veyron; it has an 8.0L W16-cylinder engine, four turbochargers, and a dual-clutch, computer-controlled, manual transmission.”

“Hey, you lost me at Veyron.” I smile at him.

He chuckles and adds, “It’s a Bugatti, named after the racing driver Pierre Veyron.” His eyes dance and his smile broadens as he provides this additional information. I recall the Forbes piece I read about him earlier which mentioned that one of his hobbies was car racing, but before I comment anything about it I halt. I really don’t want to admit to looking him up. Pathetic is not exactly a sexy virtue.

“You want to be buckled up in this babe. She does zero to a hundred in 5.1 seconds,” he suggests boyishly, running his hand over the leathered wheel, his long fingers lingering over the sharp curve. “So, anywhere special you’d like to go?” He rewards me with a sinful, crooked smile.