“Really? How many do you have?”
I’m sort of blown away that we’re having a normal conversation like normal people. No snarky remarks or rude comments. And that we actually have something in common—it’s one of my favorite things to talk about, fast and expensive cars. “I have some in storage too. I think—yeah, I have close to one hundred cars in my collection so far.”
“Wow. I know my dad had more than one hundred at one point, but I’m afraid he’s sold quite a few of them.” She nibbles on her lower lip, looking worried. “It makes him sad to lose them, but it needed to be done.”
I can’t imagine having to sell even one of my cars because times were tough. I’d do it if I had to but . . . I wouldn’t want to. I feel for her father.
I also feel like an asshole. I want to buy property from her father for a steal, so I can turn it around and make a profit. Plus, I’m dating his daughter in the hopes I can get closer to him.
Though, really I like her. A lot. I’m not with her just so I can have an in with Scott Knight. I’m with Marina because I want to be.
“I’d love to see what remains of his collection some time.” I would. Not just because I could get an in with him, but I’m genuinely interested. What if he has my dream car in his shop? Not that I have a particular car I’m yearning for, but hey, it could happen.
“Um, yeah.” She fidgets in her seat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “You know I still live at home, right?”
I’m shocked. I hadn’t a clue. “You do? How old are you?”
She glares at me. Uh oh. Here we go, right into “let’s-see-how-out-of-hand-we-can-get-before-we-start-calling-each-other-names.” “I’m twenty-three,” she sniffs, all haughty Italian princess-like. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Really?” She sounds surprised. I glance at her to find she looks surprised too. “I thought you were older.”
“How much older?” Shit, do I look old? I’m tempted to check myself out in the rearview mirror, but I resist the urge.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, glances out the window. “Early thirties?”
“You like older men?” I tease.
She turns to glare at me again. “Not at all. I usually date men more my age.” Her comment is pointed. Now she’s really making me feel like a dirty, lecherous old man.
“I’m not even thirty,” I mutter, shaking my head. Maybe we should quit talking. I never know what’s going on in Marina’s head. Our banter feels pretty comfortable at the moment, but we could slip into argument mode in a hot second. And I don’t want us fighting before we get to the restaurant. Ivy will pick up on the tension rumbling between us and want to know what’s going on. So would Archer probably, though he’s pretty damn oblivious when it comes to that stuff.
Marina remains quiet, too; her hands curled in her lap, her head turned away, so she can stare out the window and watch the passing scenery. So I remain silent, sneaking the occasional glance at her hair, loving the multiple shades of blonde and brown mixed, knowing without a doubt that she’s a natural blonde, now that I’ve seen her naked.
Thinking of her naked sends my thoughts into other directions. Dangerous, dirty, and unnecessary directions that I shouldn’t be focusing on at the moment. Thinking of the two of us together leaves me feeling needy. Vulnerable.
Hungry. Starving, more like it. All for her.
Fuck.
“Can I ask you a question?” I gotta break the tension and talk about something else before I lose it and attack her.
She turns to look at me. “Go for it,” she says warily.
“You’re a blonde.”
A smile teases the corner of her lips. “That’s not a question.”
“I thought Italians weren’t normally blonde,” I say lamely, feeling like a jackass. I’m trying to make conversation, and I feel like an idiot. This woman just makes me so damn . . . nervous. I can’t explain it.
“I’m not one hundred percent Italian, you know. My dad is what he calls a mutt,” she says, her voice light. She seems to like talking about her family, and I like it too. Any tidbit I can get on Scott Knight, I can turn around and use later.
But I also like learning more about her. I’m curious. I want to know. Usually I run the other direction when a woman wants to tell me her life story. So many of them do, going on and on about their past, their family, their friends. It all starts to sound like monotonous noise after a while.
Not with this woman. She offers these glimpses of her personal life so rarely, I cherish every tidbit I learn. Which is fucking crazy, truly. I shouldn’t be that wrapped up in her, wanting to learn more, everything about her, wanting to kiss her . . .