“You’ve got a weird look in your eye. “
Marisa fixed her friend with a glare. “We’re not together, Christie, and we won’t ever be. We’re too different. Besides, I’ve always said love sucks balls and it does.”
But her friend shook her head. “It doesn’t, Mar. I know you had a crappy experience once, but that doesn’t mean all relationships have to be that way.”
“Huh. Easy for you to say, married to Mr. Perfect.”
“He’s not perfect. And neither am I. But we’ve learned to live with each other’s flaws and accept each other for who we are. That’s the way love is.”
Marisa scowled down at her hot chocolate. “You’ll forgive me if I disagree with you. Majorly.” Because in her experience love wasn’t about acceptance. It was about giving someone all of yourself while they gave you lies in return.
Christie had found a guy who loved her for who she was, but that’s because she was lucky. Marisa had thought the same until Alistair had revealed his true colors.
Love sucked. And it was mistake she wouldn’t make again.
“So tell me more about Jude and Caleb,” Marisa said.
Chapter Eight
The lights came on, one by one, illuminating the deceptively massive space of the underground garage and the five cars lined up inside it.
“Wow,” Marisa breathed, sounding awestruck.
Luke leaned against the doorframe and watched as Marisa walked slowly over to his fire engine–red Ferrari Enzo.
He’d picked her up coming back from his afternoon out on the racetrack and he was feeling good. A little reckless, even. Allowing himself a speed high always had that effect on him, though usually, once he got home, the feeling faded. But not now. And not with her here.
Marisa had been surprised when he’d arrived at her apartment, all ready to take her back to his place. Apparently, she hadn’t been expecting the month to start now. But they’d had a little chat and eventually she’d agreed.
This hadn’t proved to be as difficult as he’d thought, and as a result, the usual tension between them had eased, at least enough for friendly conversation.
“This is definitely not a Volvo,” she said, putting out a hand to the glossy metal.
“Don’t touch,” he ordered before her fingerprints could destroy the paintwork.
“Of course not.” Indeed, she hadn’t, her hand remaining hovering above the car. “If you’d waited a second longer you would have heard me ask for permission.”
He sighed and pushed away from the doorframe, coming over to stand beside her. She watched him, a distinct gleam in her eyes. “Give me credit here, McNamara. I can be sensitive when I want to be.”
Luke put a hand in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the soft square of chamois cloth that he kept there. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Use this to wipe off any fingerprints.”
She grinned and took the cloth, and he tried not to tense as her fingers brushed over the car’s metal bonnet. “Sexy,” she purred, giving the car an oddly sensual caress. “This is quite a collection you’ve got here.”
“I told you I liked fast cars.”
“You did. Expensive habit.”
“I don’t spend my money on anything else.”
“Which means you must have rather a lot of money.”
It was true, he did. Not out of any conscious desire to accrue it but because he got a lot of pleasure out of playing the markets. And once he had it, he tended to give large portions of it away to charity or spend it on his own private passion—cars.
He even viewed is as a form of therapy, an outlet for him when the frustrations of his condition got too much.
“These aren’t cheap, it’s true,” he allowed.
Marisa gave the Ferrari’s fender another stroke, then rubbed at the paintwork. “So these aren’t for any kind of investment? “
Luke snorted. “No. Cars don’t make good investments, especially considering the depreciation as soon as they roll off the assembly line.”
“Totally for stress relief, then?”
He had no idea why the question sounded so sexual. Or maybe that was his one-track mind. “Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice on an even keel. “I’ve always been into them, since I was a kid.”
Marisa moved away from the Ferrari, wandering over to the black Jaguar. Her hair was up in a ponytail and it swayed with her walk. He found himself watching her, the movement of her hips, the way her jeans hugged her bottom, and he realized he had his hands curled into fists, itching with the need to touch her the way she was touching his cars.
She leaned down, peering in the driver’s side window. “So where do you drive them? They must be too fast for the roads here.” Her head turned, giving him a rather wicked glance. “Or do they stay in the garage where you can stroke them?”