He glares at me. “That’s inappropriate, but playing a song about wrecking my car isn’t?”
“Ugh!”
All of a sudden the car jerks forward and there’s this loud popping noise that eclipses even Rod’s vocals. Keen has a death grip on the wheel. “Hold on!” he yells.
Shit, is this karma knocking at my door? If so, I had no intention of ever doing harm to his car, I swear.
A set of headlights coming at us tells me we are heading in the wrong direction. “Watch out!” I scream, truly fearful that I am going to die an evil woman and forever have my ill treatment of this man on my conscience.
As the car continues to spin, it pirouettes in such a way that I have to wrench my head around to figure the correct direction we should be headed.
Seized by fear, I cannot open my mouth wide enough to scream as loud as I want to.
“I got this, Maggie,” Keen says over the rain and the sound of his car losing control.
My name on his lips brings me focus with a strange sense that he isn’t going to let anything happen to me.
Jerking my head in his direction, I watch as he slams his foot down on the brake and then eases off it, pumping it with total competence. And then I watch as he somehow manages to pull the Porsche 911 over to the side of the road in order to avoid crashing into the car in front of him.
The car comes to a screeching stop and I’m catapulted forward. There’s a weight on my chest that for some reason makes my breath come out in pants that I cannot control. And then my heart starts pounding, and I have some vague idea that my fingers are tingling.
Rod Stewart’s voice has returned to high-octave level as he tells Maggie May that all she did was wreck his bed and in the morning kick him in the head, and then just like that the music stops.
There’s a clicking noise. And then another, and then my seat belt is no longer across my chest.
“Maggie, look at me,” Keen orders as he peels my hands off the dashboard.
I turn to see his face etched with concern.
His hands are now squeezing mine. “Tell me you’re okay.”
Hot. My body is so hot, as if it is the middle of July. “What happened?”
Those callused palms of his find my face. “A tire blew out. You hit your head on the dash. Are you sure you are okay?”
“Why are your hands so callused?” I ask.
“From rock climbing and the boxing gym.”
I turn his hand in mine and run a finger over the rough calluses. “I was curious why a Wall Street wolf shows signs of physical labor.”
With a shake of his head, he says, “I take it you’re fine?”
I look up and meet his gaze. “I think I am, but I’m going to be late for work.”
He grins at me. “You and me both.”
“The store will be empty anyway. The torrential rain is bad for business.”
Keen shrugs out of his suit coat. “That is why Internet sales is one of the first things I want to introduce to Simon Warren.”
“I agree.”
Next, Keen undoes the knot of his tie and pulls that off too. “Stay put,” he tells me and then opens his door.
“Keen,” I call.
It’s too late. He’s already striding to the front of the Porsche and opening the hood. Guess he has no intention of calling AAA.
The rain is relentless, lashing the trees, the Porsche, the passing cars, and Keen.
All I can see is a faint black shape.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
White bolts of lightning illuminate the sky between claps of thunder. Leaning forward, I squint my eyes and catch sight of his silhouette. Lightning strikes closer and I start to worry about him out there. I open my window and the rain assaults me. “Keen?” I call.
No answer.
All I can see is the movement of his faint silhouette.
And then finally, he slams the hood closed, strides around to the driver’s door, and gets in.
Rain slicks his hair over his forehead and drips off his nose. His clothes hang sodden, the white shirt made sheer by the water. Muscles bulging. Heart beating. He stares at me, but makes no sound except the slightly raspy hiss of his breath.
I am already reaching for him when he pulls me to him. “Maggie,” he sighs.
“Keen,” I whisper.
His lips hover over my mouth. “You’re right, I was scared. I don’t know why, but I was.”
I lick around his lip, tasting rain and him. “I was scared too, and I also have no idea why either.”
Two truths.
No answers.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters anymore.
Not the past.
What he did.
Or how I acted.
It just doesn’t matter.
The rain is cold, but he is hot beneath the wetness. With my palms flat to his chest, I begin to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers. When I finish, I pull it open, and for a moment all I can do is stare. I can look at him a hundred times, and I think every time will feel like the first.