Joy Ride(21)

“Shouldn’t that be walk and grovel?” I suggest as we head off.

She arches an eyebrow. “Yes. Feel free to begin.”

I’m about to launch into my apology when I’m struck with a realization—we just exchanged several sentences without slinging invectives at each other. “Do you realize we didn’t insult each other for the last fifteen seconds? Must be a new record for us.”

“Hmm. It must be. Let’s break it right now,” she says as we walk in step along the side street.

But I don’t take the bait. “I got you something.”

“Ooh, wait.” She stops in her tracks, grabs her phone from her purse, and pretends to click a button. “It’s apology time. I need to record this moment for all posterity.”

I roll my eyes. “Forget what I said about the record.” I wave a hand dismissively. “We’ll just smash through it again, especially since you make me want to take back the apology.”

“Fine. Say you’re sorry for being a dick in the car. I didn’t mean to stop you. I simply wanted to preserve history in the making.”

I ignore her comment and show her the bag from Josie’s bakery. “It’s monkey bread. My friend Josie runs a bakery and makes the best everything in the world, including monkey bread.” Her brown eyes soften. They’re a lighter shade now, and reveal a hint of vulnerability. “I’m sorry I was a dick with your phone. I shouldn’t have done that. Phones are private.”

“They are,” she says, without any vinegar in her tone. Just honey. “And thank you for saying that.”

“Take the bread. It’s been known to bring about world peace.”

She peeks into the bag and her eyes widen with delight. I swear, they fucking sparkle when she sees the gooey, caramel, cinnamony-sweet treat stuffed with all the goodness in the baking universe. “Is it poisoned?” she asks, but this time she sounds playful.

It’s a welcome change from the vitriol I usually hear, and the vitriol I usually give her back. Keeping my tone light, too, I say, “With arsenic.”

She lowers her nose to the bag and sniffs. “I don’t smell any poison.”

“Arsenic is odorless, sweetheart,” I tell her. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I grab it and hit ignore before I even see who’s calling. I want to be in this moment.

When she raises her face, she hands me the bag. “You better eat it first, then.”

I grab a hunk of the bread and stuff it in my mouth. I chew and swallow in the most exaggerated fashion possible. “See? Safe as can be.”

“Such a valiant taste-tester,” she says with a flirty purr. That sound thrums through my bones. “My turn.”

I rip off a smaller bite and hand it to her. But she doesn’t open her palm. She steps closer to me so she’s inches away. Then, she opens her mouth, and she looks like heavenly sin.

Those red lips form the loveliest O, and just like I do with some cars, I experience a kind of insta-love. It’s official—my cock is head over fucking heels in love with her gorgeous mouth and thinking all sorts of filthy thoughts about how to fit inside it, the dirty bastard.

Gently, I put the bread in her mouth, my fingertips brushing over her lips. That slight touch sends electricity straight to my dick, reaffirming his obsession. She chews seductively, murmuring in delight, then swallows. How does she fucking do it? She eats sexily. She walks sexily. She grabs her phone sexily. She probably puts ketchup on fries like it’s a sensual experience. Suddenly, I want to watch her do mundane things—wash laundry, open a jar of mustard, unlock her door—and determine if every single thing she does is a turn-on.

I’d file my report with the Man Council, informing them that I’ve indeed discovered the holy grail of sex appeal—Henley Rose Marlowe. No matter how hard I try to pretend she has the face of a groundhog, she defies me simply by being . . . her.

“You were right,” she says softly.

I blink, trying to remember what I was right about. “I was?”

The corners of her lips curve up. “Yes. I feel so peaceful.” She steps closer to me. “All because of the monkey bread.”

Those lips dust my cheek and she whispers, “Thank you,” in my ear. Her voice is everywhere, sending a sizzling charge across each inch of my skin. As if I’m buzzed. I’m not really sure where I am right now. I don’t know if I’m dreaming, or floating, or fantasizing. This might very well be a mirage, or the world has turned inside out, because Henley is not only being civilized, she’s being intensely flirty. It’s disarming.