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With a whir, we start descending again.
Collins releases an audible sigh. Of relief, I’m guessing.
“Good thing it’s not winter,” I muse. “We might have needed to huddle for body heat.”
She snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Still serious,” I reply.
“They keep the temperature hovering right around freezing. You haven’t noticed how most of the assistants wear sweaters?”
The only assistant I notice is my own, but I keep that thought to myself. “Nope,” I say truthfully. “Does that mean youdowant to huddle for warmth?”
“No,” she replies emphatically as the doors open to the underground garage. Collins gives me a disbelieving look. Guess she didn’t notice I’d hit theGbutton instead ofLfor lobby. “What if I’d said no?”
“You didn’t,” I remind her, giving her palm a quick squeeze.
She jerks, clearly having forgotten we were—are—holding hands. “No special treatment,” she reminds me, pulling free from my grip and grabbing her bag off the ground.
“No special treatment,” I promise, following her off the elevator.
10
Kit’s a good driver.
I wasn’t sure hecoulddrive. I assumed he’d been ferried around by a horde of private drivers and pilots and sea captains for his entire existence and never bothered to get his license. I can’t picture him standing in line at the DMV like a normal sixteen-year-old.
Not only is he a good driver, but helooksgood driving.
In the enclosed space, all I can smell is the mandarin-and-cedar scent of his cologne. It’s even more noticeable thanit was in the elevator. At least trapped in there, I had the fear of imminent death to distract me. As we inch across the Brooklyn Bridge, my distractions are much more limited.
Smell is the sense most closely connected to memory, which is extremely unfortunate right now. The last time I was this close to Kit for this long, we were both wearing a lot fewer clothes.
I shouldn’t have agreed to let him drive me home. I saidfinebefore our elevator mishap, so I don’t even have the excuse of that harrowing experience muddling my decision-making. The subway might be crowded and smelly, but it’s a lot safer than being alone with Kit Kensington.
I believed he’d take public transit with me just to prove a ridiculous point, and then I’d end up feeling guilty for inconveniencing him. Which was how I wound up in the passenger seat of his fancy sports car, providing block-by-block directions rather than give him my exact address to punch into the fancy navigation system.
Why? I don’t really know.
Half the shit I say or do around Kit, I look back on and can’t believe I said or did it. He’s worse for my impulse control than anything else in existence. Telling him to turn left or right or stay straight at the end of each block allows me to retain a little control, I guess.
Except for right now, when we’re barely moving.
He’s my boss, but we’re not in the office. That shouldn’t make any difference, but it does. The rigid politeness that’s stood erected between us since I started working for him is barely standing.
It’s a relief. And a cause for concern.
“Was your dress okay?”
My head jerks in Kit’s direction. He’s focused on the traffic ahead,profile backlit by the bridge lights.
I debate playing dumb again. Instead, I sigh. “What happened to pretending it never happened?”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted the thong you’d left back. We can’t discuss the party?”
I silently pray it’s dim enough inside the car that he can’t tell I’m blushing. I realized I’d forgotten my underwear halfway down the hallway, and I had no way to reenter the suite without involving hotel staff or knocking to wake him up.
Doesbackmean he kept it?