Book 1 - Page 41 (1/2)

I nodded. “Benign. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course.”

Minutes pa.s.sed in uncomfortable silence and I was more than a bit relieved when I saw his luggage slide down the conveyor belt. We both reached for it at the same time and our hands touched briefly on the handle. Pulling back, I glanced up to find he was watching me.

My stomach dropped at the familiar look of hunger in his eyes. We both muttered apologies and I looked away, but not before noticing the slight smirk on his face. Fortunately, it was time to pick up the rental car, and we headed to the parking garage.

He looked pleased as we approached the luxury rental, a Benz SLS AMG. He loved to drive—well, he loved to drive fast—and I always made a point of ordering something fun for him when he needed a car.

“Very nice, Miss Mills,” he said, his hand sliding along the hood. “Remind me to think about giving you a raise.”

I felt the familiar desire to punch him spread through my body and it calmed me. Everything was so much clearer when he was being an outright douche.

Pressing the b.u.t.ton to release the trunk I gave him a reproachful look and stepped aside for him to put his things away. He took off his jacket and handed it to me. I shoved it into the trunk.

“Careful,” he admonished.

“I’m not a bellhop. Put your own d.a.m.n coat away.”

He laughed and bent to lift his suitcase. “Christ, I’d just wanted you to hold it for a moment.”

“Oh.” With cheeks flushed at my overreaction, I reached in and grabbed the coat, smoothing it over my arm. “Sorry.”

“Why do you always a.s.sume I’m being a jerk?”

“Because you usually are?”

With another laugh, he hoisted the suitcase into the trunk. “You must have missed me a lot.”

I started to answer but got distracted instead watching the muscles of his back tighten his s.h.i.+rt as he placed his luggage in the trunk next to mine. Up close, I saw that the dress s.h.i.+rt had a subtle gray print and was tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist without any extra fabric bunching anywhere. His pants were dark gray and crisply pressed. I was pretty sure he’d never done his own laundry—and d.a.m.n, who would blame him when tailored, dry-cleaned clothes made him so completely f**kable?

Stop. Stop!