Page 28 of Men or Paws

Why would Hollywood’s Bad Boy own a car from a musical and another car from a romantic comedy? That would be the equivalent of seeing the Pope behind the wheel of a Porsche 911 Carrera.

Something didn’t add up.

“Whoareyou?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Rocco stared at me like I was a painting in a museum and he just couldn’t figure out why it was called art. “Who areyou?”

“Personal question.” I smirked, then glanced over the top of the Lotus toward the next car in the garage. My eyeballs practically popped out. “Holy cow. Please don’t tell me that’sMr. Bean’scar.” I approached the green Leyland Mini 1000 Mark IV with the black hood, feasting my eyes on one of the few cars in the world that made me smile.

“That, it is,” Rocco said, following right behind me with Houdini.

Without thinking, I grabbed Rocco’s arm and squeezed it. “I love this car! I binge-watchedMr. Beanfor two weeks during a rough patch in my life, after I got fired from . . . a job.”

Thank God I stopped myself before I mentioned Santo Domingo Grill.

Especially since Rocco was the reason I got fired.

If he found out I was the chef at the restaurant he had a problem with, he might fire me on the spot, which would be ironic since he would then be the reason I got fired twice. But the worst part would be that I would have to kiss the fifteen thousand dollars goodbye, along with the start of my new business, at least for the foreseeable future.

Luckily, I caught myself before my mouth betrayed me.

Rocco glanced down at my hand that was still clutched to his bicep, like it was the only thing that was keeping me from falling.

He cleared his throat.

I let go of his arm, then brushed it like I was trying to smooth out his olive skin.

What am I doing?

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m a little excited about this car.”

“I can see that.”

“Mr. Beanmay be silly to some people, but—”

“I didn’t say he was.”

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t,” I said. “You’re obviously a Rowan Atkinson fan, if you have this car.”

Rocco shook his head. “I didn’t say that either.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous. I signed the NDA, remember? But honestly, I had you pegged for a man with a fancy Italian sports cars collection. All black to match your clothes, of course.”

He gestured to the Black Audi Q5 SUV on the other side of the Mini. “It’s German, but it does have Italian leather seats. Does that count?” He chuckled.

“Nice try,” I said, pointing to the covered car on the other side of the Audi. “What do you have hiding under there? A Ferrari?”

Rocco slapped his forehead with his palm. “Oh, that’s right. I do have an Italian car. I totally forgot.” He laughed. “Maybe I need another cup of coffee. Here you go. One hundred percent Italian, but not a Ferrari.”

He walked over and slid the cover off the length of the car.

“Wow. It’s gorgeous,” I said, admiring the white Maserati MC20 with butterfly wing doors that opened upward. “How could you forget you have a Maserati in your garage?”

Rocco ran his fingers through his hair. “I know, it’s pathetic, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, plus I never drive it. In fact, it hasn’t been off the property since they delivered it a year ago. Anyway, let’s head back inside.” He gestured toward the door.

I trailed directly behind Rocco and Houdini. “You have never driven that car, not even once?”

“Nope. It’s got eleven miles on the odometer, none of them from me.”