Page 170 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

She shakes her head. “I was hotheaded. I was stubborn. I was young. I was so damn sure that was what the client wanted. Don’t blame yourself.” Then she winks. “ Entirely .”

I shake my head and grip her shoulders. “Don’t you get it?

I take my time with the guys. I’m patient.

I teach them. I make sure they know what they’re doing.

I tried so fucking hard to do that with you, but the day I gave you the job I was looking at you in your jeans and your blue work shirt, and all I could think was how much I wanted you, and I had to get away from you. ”

She tries to rein in a laugh.

“Why are you laughing at me? I don’t want to treat you any differently. You’re supposed to hate me. You’re supposed to hate me because you want to be respected. You don’t want to be treated differently, and I did treat you differently that time. And then I came back to town, and I was pissed.”

She laughs even more, and it’s the same sound as the other night.

That sound like bells. It fucking hooks into me.

It’s doing something to me. Everything about her is like a charm, from the way she dissects magic acts, to worshipping my tub, to needling me, to letting me into her warm blanket cocoon.

“I’m laughing because, fine, maybe you could have checked in and maybe you could have been a better teacher at times, but .

. . C’mon. We’re not talking sexual harassment here.

You gave me an assignment, and I completely botched it.

And it cost you time and money. And then I lost my cool.

Do you not remember the drama queen I was?

” she asks, tapping her chest. No, she’s stabbing it.

“I parked my hands on my hips and called you a cruel bastard. You want to talk about inappropriate behavior? I engaged in it, too.”

The knot of tension in me loosens. “You were kind of hotheaded and stubborn,” I say under my breath.

“And you were kind of a cruel bastard,” she says, playfully.

“So we were both kind of jerks?”

She laughs. “Total jerks. I think it’s safe to say, looking back, that we both could have handled our little work tiff differently. But it’s behind us. Okay? Let’s keep it there.”

“Sounds like a fair deal.”

She gives me a coy look. “But you were kind of a dick,” she says playfully. “And now I know why.” She leans closer and taps her fingers against my chest. “Because you wanted me.” She says it like a taunt, a little song you sing to egg someone on.

“I did. I wanted you then. I wanted you when I saw you at the show. And I want you now.”

“You wanted me then. You still want me now,” she says, and she’s singing again.

“Is this a new bubble-gum pop song?”

“Yes. I’m going to commission it to Belinda, and we’ll make gobs of money off it.” She shakes her hips and croons. “He wanted me then. He still wants me now.”

I roll my eyes, but I let her give it to me. Because I deserve it, and because she’s not mad. Because she’s singing a forgiveness tune.

“So we can move past the Mustang?”

Her lips curve up. “We already have. We’re past the Mustang. We’re onto the Lambo. Why don’t we talk about what car we’re driving to Milford tomorrow? That’s the car we should focus on.”

I lean against the counter as the bartender brings our drinks. I toss a twenty on the black metal and thank him. “I’ve got a black sports car I built myself?—”

She cuts me off. “I would hope you built it yourself. You’re not impressing this car girl unless I know these hands made it from the ground up.” She reaches for my hand and slides her fingers through mine.

“And I have a Triumph TR6. Don’t tell the other cars, but the Triumph is my favorite, even though I didn’t build it myself. I added safety features and rebuilt the important parts, though, as in new electrical.”

“So it doesn’t blow up?”

I laugh, loving that she knows her cars. “I thought that would be a good feature—blow-up resistant. Plus, it has a hot new paint job.”

Her jaw drops, and she fans herself. “Color? What color?” She sounds as if she’s hyperventilating.

I bring my mouth to her ear and whisper as if I’m telling her what I want to do to her when I take her home. “It’s electric blue.”

She moans. It’s filthy and beautiful, and I want to hear that sound twenty more times tonight. Then tomorrow. Then the next night.

“Pick me up at two.” She nibbles her lip, and adds, “And there’s something I wanted to?—”

I’m ready to tell her I don’t need to pick her up tomorrow because she’s staying with me tonight, but her phone beeps.

“Crap,” she mutters, as she grabs it from her purse.

She points to it. “John.”

I wave, letting her know to take the call.

“Hey there!” Her voice is bright and cheery. “How’s everything going?”

She pauses, and I take a drink of my Scotch.

“Oh yeah? We can talk about all that. I’m totally up for it.”

Another pause, and I arch an eyebrow.

“Absolutely.” Then she laughs, and it’s the same damn way she laughed with me. The goblin rears its head again. Stupid jealousy tornadoes through me.

I try to tell myself the woman is allowed to laugh with her fucking boss.

Boss.

Boss.

Boss.

That word reverberates.

That’s what I was to her once upon a time.

“We can meet tonight. I’ll be there shortly.”

She hangs up, and my heart fucking falls out of my chest. It lands on the floor in a discarded, depressed heap. She grabs her mojito, takes a thirsty gulp, then gives me a guilty smile.

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I have to take care of this.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my chin up. “It’s business. He’s your boss.”

She nods. “I’ve just got to finish?—”

I wave a hand. “Go. Take care of it. I’ll pick you up at two.”

She stands up from the barstool. “Sorry.” Then she leans closer and dusts her lips to my cheek. “Thank you for dancing with me tonight.”

When she leaves, I’m the sucker alone at the bar, watching the most beautiful girl walk away.

In some other story, I’d chase her. But I already told her how I felt, and whatever she was about to tell me was cut off when John called.

That name echoes in my head. John Smith. The other night she said she didn’t get involved with anyone in the business except for one time.

I’ve tried hard to not get involved with anyone in the business. Ever. The only time . . .

I didn’t push her to find out who he was. But could it be him? The guy she’s rushing off to meet at nine p.m. after we practically promised on the dance floor to spend the night together? After I told her I’ve always been attracted to her?

I grip the glass tighter, and when I look down, my knuckles are nearly white.

I set the glass on the bar and leave.