Do I want to build with her? Hell fucking no.
But I can’t blow this chance just because she drives me crazy. I flash back to Mark and his compliments. To Mike and how far he’s come. To all the guys and gals I’ve helped in this business. I might have half a mind to walk right out of here because this feels like a bait and switch, but the part of me that won’t back down from a challenge keeps my ass in the seat.
Henley lifts a finger. “Can you excuse me for just one little second? I need to go to the little girls’ room.”
“Of course,” David says, gesturing in the direction of the restrooms.
I glance at her furtively as she moves through the crowd. She dips a hand into her purse and grabs her phone. Who’s she going to call in the ladies’ room?
Out of nowhere, that red-hot jealousy that flicked in me at the car show roars again. It burns more brightly as I picture her calling her boyfriend.
Make that white-hot envy.
12
Henley’s To-Do List
* * *
—Thank Jay for that amazing advice on the fly.
* * *
—Rein in the holy effing you-know-what look on my face . . . even though this is such a what-the-flippety-flip situation.
* * *
—Get down on my knees and thank my lucky stars for this opportunity.
* * *
—Call Olivia later so we can plan a girls’ night out to celebrate and dance.
* * *
—Side note: Find some sort of techniques (hypnosis, perhaps?) to stop thinking Max Summers is hot . . . How can someone be hot when he needles a gal so much?
* * *
—Ask lawyer to speed up paperwork because this could be huge.
* * *
—Keep mouth shut.
13
She returns from the restroom, stuffing her phone into her purse as she weaves her way through the early evening patrons—throngs of women in skinny jeans and heels holding cosmos and packs of men in tailored slacks and button-downs with cuffs rolled up.
Who’s the lucky guy, I want to ask her.
I mean, unlucky guy. Who’s the fucking unlucky bastard you just called? I feel sorry for any dude who has to put up with this firebrand. She must be the world’s worst girlfriend. I bet she wins awards for being a nag. For refusing to let her guy hang out with his buds. For getting on his case about everything.
She sits next to me, crossing her legs. My eyes drift to her thighs. I bet she shaved this morning.
Holy shit.
What is wrong with me?
Must stop thinking of how those legs would feel hitched around my hips as I take her against the wall.
I look away from them to see her expression is giddy. Her smile is so wide; her straight, white teeth are gleaming. Her brown eyes sparkle. Her cheeks are going to hurt if she keeps this up. I clench a fist under the table then grab my beer with my other hand. I bet her stupid boyfriend put her in this extra good mood. He probably praised her on the phone for pulling off this ruse behind my back then told her he’d congratulate her with the best sex of her life.
And I nearly crush the glass.
“I’m in,” Henley says.
And naturally, so am I. “I absolutely am, too.”
For the next half hour, I force all the anger and annoyance out of the way. We discuss details with David over cocktails. As he sets down his empty martini glass, he checks his watch and declares it’s time to take off for the theater. He tosses a Benjamin on the table and says good-bye.
I swallow and push back my chair. Might as well hit the road. Go to the gym. Ride my bike with Chase. Then start sketching out kickass Lambo features.
Henley slams her palm to my chest. “Do not even try to insinuate that I was aware of his plan, like you did about me getting Livvy as a client.”
Guess I’m not leaving yet. “I wasn’t going to, but you brought it up. Did you know before this meeting what he was planning? Did you know he hired me then brought you on to share the work? Competing is one thing, but being underhanded is entirely another.”
“I know that, and I know the difference. David called me a few days after the car show where I first saw you. I was busy on Livvy’s car and I needed to give it my full attention. I wanted it to be perfect for her. I didn’t want any distractions.” The way she says that gives me pause, like it’s her watchword. “I wasn’t able to see him until this meeting, but we had talked on the phone last night. I honestly didn’t know you’d be here. Max,” she adds, and her voice is stripped of the barbed wire it usually contains, “I had no clue he would play this kind of bizarre car-building matchmaker game.”
I arch a skeptical brow. “No clue?”
She clasps her hands together, as if she’s imploring me. “No idea at all. That’s not how I do business. I wouldn’t try to pull the rug out from under you. I know better because you taught me better.”