by Roni Loren
“Your knight heading over on his white horse?”
The low, rumbling voice jerks my attention upward. I automatically clutch my phone to my chest like I don’t want anyone to see that it’s let me down. Monroe gives me a ghost of a smile.
“I don’t need a white horse. I need my car.”
“Yeah, well, about that. I’ve been trying to work a miracle.” He wipes his hands on a dirty rag and tucks it in the back pocket of the grease-stained blue jumpsuit he put on over his other clothes. The move looks smooth and natural, like he’s been doing this forever and the towel is somehow a part of him. “But I’m afraid there aren’t going to be any angels singing tonight.”
“But that Lyle guy told me you were making progress.”
“Progress, yes. Success? No. Believe me, I tried to do a few work-arounds to see if I could get her going. But you need a part that we don’t have in stock. I’m going to have to order it, and it’ll take at least a day to get here.”
My shoulders sag. “Son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do anything about it tonight.” He walks from behind the counter to lean against the front of it. His arms cross over his chest as he considers me.
I try not to notice how the grease smudge on his jaw makes him look both menacing and distractingly attractive. God, what is my deal tonight? This guy’s giving me bad news, and my hormones decide to go rogue. Maybe it’s the Britney songs.
“My boyfriend got held up at work. He can’t come pick me up.”
“I thought you had a date tonight.”
“We did. But there’s some crisis at his internship.”
He frowns. “He’s leaving his girl stranded for a crisis at a job that he’s not even getting paid for? Nice guy.”
I press my lips together, my defenses rising. “He takes his job seriously. He’s not going to bail on his responsibilities.”
Monroe takes the clipboard of paperwork I’d filled out and left on the front counter. “Looks like he’s bailing on you, princess. In my book, that’s dropping a pretty important responsibility.”
My spine stiffens. If I had feathers, they’d be fluffed. “Last I checked, it’s not 1952. I’m his girlfriend, not a responsibility. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” His eyes skim over the yellow papers. “But that doesn’t mean . . . Ah, come on, really?”
“What?”
He flips the clipboard toward me and points at a line on the insurance verification form. “It’s your birthday. The dude is ditching you for work on your birthday?”
“It’s not a big deal . . . I mean, we can do it some other—”
He tosses the clipboard back onto the counter. “You can lie to yourself, princess, but you’re not going to convince me. Twenty-one is supposed to be one of the best birthdays. And no girl gets herself all, you know”—he waves a hand, indicating my outfit—“because it’s a no-big-deal night.”
I clench my jaw.
Monroe walks over and swipes the phone out of my hand. “What’s Romeo’s name?”
“Hey, give that back.” I jump to my feet and reach for my phone.
But he steps back and holds it up. “Smile.”
I grit my teeth. “Give. It. Back.”
“Pissed and mean, even better.” He grins and takes a pic with my phone.
“What the hell?” I stalk toward him, but he backpedals until he’s behind the counter, scrolling through my phone.
“There it is, Caleb with the little heart symbol next to it,” Monroe says triumphantly. His thumbs fly over the screen, typing. “Hope . . . work . . . is . . . worth . . . missing . . . this.”
“Oh my God.” I lunge around the counter, but Monroe slides out of reach and shows me the screen. He hasn’t hit Send on the message yet, but the pic of me is there—cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild, and my cleavage on prominent display. I don’t look like myself. I look kind of dangerous. And hot. Go me.
He slides the phone across the counter toward me. “Hit Send, princess. It’ll be good for the soul. Make that dude suffer for blowing you off. Because, believe me, when he sees that picture, he’ll suffer.”
My hand wraps around my phone. “I can’t. I don’t . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t want him to think I’m mad.”
He scoffs. “Come on. You are mad. May as well be honest about it.”
“Yeah, but, we don’t have that kind of relationship, and I don’t want to look like . . . needy or high-maintenance or psycho or whatever.”
It sounds lame coming out, but I’m just not explaining it well. Caleb always tells me how much he loves how calm and cool I am, how nothing seems to ruffle me. Very Jackie O., Natalie, he’s said more than once. And from Mr. Political Science Major, there’s no higher compliment.
I love that he sees me that way and not as the girl from that trashy Bourne family like I’ve been all my life. Caleb thinks I’m elegant, a lady. And I want to be that for him. So I’ve learned to tame my fiery temper when things don’t go the way I want.
But, of course, someone like Monroe won’t understand that. He’s probably never edited a word in his life.
He smirks and shakes his head. “Right. God forbid you make him think bad things. You didn’t seem to have any problem giving me an earful when we met.”
“You’re not him.”
“No doubt about that. You two must have a very . . . nice relationship.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He rolls his neck, looking tired all of a sudden, and turns his back to me. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s been a long day and I’m just talking shit. Give me a minute, and I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
He heads toward the office that sits off the main waiting area and starts unbuttoning his coveralls, peeling them down as he goes and revealing the cleaner clothes beneath.
I follow him, phone still clutched in my hand. “No, go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking. It’s not like you’ve held back yet.”
He kicks his boots off and steps out of the coveralls. “You just didn’t strike me as the type to be so worried about making waves or telling it like it is. You damn near bit my head off when you met me, and you don’t even know me. I guess I’m surprised you’d let the boyfriend get away with ditching you so easily.”
“He didn’t—” But before I can finish, my phone dings.
I glance down at the new email. It’s from the restaurant. Damn, I probably should’ve called and canceled. Can they charge you for not showing up? I slide my thumb over the message.
Good news! Your request to move your reservation from 8:00 to 8:15 has been approved. Thank you for using TableOne to make your reservations.
I stare down at the message, reading it again.
“Something wrong?” Monroe asks as he leans over to a small locker and pulls out a pair of beat-up black Chucks to replace his boots.
“I’m not—” I shake my head. “Looks like there’s some glitch with the dinner reservation I had tonight. I probably should call and cancel.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Mind doing it outside? I’m going to lock up and set the alarm.”
I nod numbly. “Yeah, sure.”
He pulls on his shoes, and I head outside, dialing the number for the restaurant when I reach the parking lot. I listen to it ring and ring as I watch Monroe through the window. He’s flipping off lights and checking doors. Finally, someone on the other end of the line answers.
“Thank you for calling Madrid, how may I help you?”
“Hi, there was a reservation for two tonight at eight under the name Caleb Dewhurst and—”
“Yes, ma’am, we moved it to eight fifteen, per request, and even got you a table on the roof terrace.”
“But I didn’t make the request—”
“Oh, well, Mr. Dewhurst called a few minutes ago and adjusted it. So you’re all set.”
“I— Wait, he called recently?”
“Uh.” The woman sounds a little flustered now, like she knows she’s given something away. “Yes, a few minutes ago.”
My skin goes cold, and in my peripheral vision, I see Monroe stepping into the parking lot and locking the outside door.
“Did you need anything else, ma’am?”
I shake myself out of the frozen state I’ve entered. “No, that’s all right.”
I press End and my hand lowers to my side.
Monroe closes the distance between us. “Everything okay?”
My heart is beating fast, and I’m chilled despite the humid evening. Surely, it must be some mix-up at the restaurant. But I find myself saying, “Could you drive through downtown before bringing me home?”
His tilts his head. “Yeah, sure. How come?”
I take a deep breath and drop my phone into my purse. “Because he kept the goddamned reservation, and suddenly, I’m not feeling very nice at all.”
Monroe shakes his head, his mouth in a grim line. I expect him to say I told you so, but thankfully he refrains. Probably a good thing because I kind of feel like punching something right now. And if he’d said that, it might’ve been him.
“Come on.” He motions for me to follow him to the back of the building, and I stalk after him, girl on a mission.
But my bravado and brilliant plan only last about thirty seconds. Because what greets me in the back parking lot is absolutely not an option. “Oh, hell no.”
Monroe swings his leg over the seat of a motorcycle with handlebars that look way too high to be comfortable, and tosses me a helmet. “Sorry, princess, this is the only ride I’ve got. Lyle took the truck home.”
“I’m in a dress.”
“Just tuck the fabric underneath your legs to hold it down. You’ll be up against me, so it’s not like anyone’s going to see anything.”
Up against him. God. “I’m not riding on a motorcycle.”
He shrugs. “There’s a bus stop at the corner that will bring you downtown. Though, this isn’t the best neighborhood at night, so I wouldn’t recommend it. And hey, if you’re really on a mission for revenge, riding up on the back of one of these with your legs wrapped around some other dude could be kind of badass.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I can feel my face flushing. Wrapping my legs around him is so not a good idea. I scramble for an excuse. “You know how dangerous these things are?”
He laughs. “Thanks, Mom. Duly noted. I promise to go the speed limit and observe all traffic laws.” He raises his hand in the Scout’s Honor mode, three fingers in the air. “But have you ever heard that saying about beggars not being choosers. You want a ride or not?”
“Goddamn it.” I shove the ridiculous helmet on my head.
His smile screams victory. “Oh, and if you need me to make out with you or anything for show when we drive up, I can find it in my giving nature to make that sacrifice for you.”
I give him a droll look. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”
He nods solemnly. “I’m a giver, birthday girl.”
“Just get me over to Willows Avenue without killing me.”
He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on, princess. You’re safe with me.”
What a lie that is. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less safe around someone. I look down at my dress and then the bike, trying to figure out logistics. “Turn your head.”
“Of course,” he says with a smug smile.
He turns to face forward, but when I adjust my dress and swing my leg over the bike, I see a flash of red and realize I’ve probably given him an R-rated show in the rearview mirror. Fantastic. What a day to choose to wear lacy lingerie. But if he saw anything, he gives no indication.
I situate myself on the seat, tucking my loose skirt beneath my thighs, then look for a place to hold on. But, of course, there’s nothing to grab onto except him. Feeling more than a little awkward, I place my hands on his hips.
“Come on, you’re going to have to hold on better than that.” He takes my hands and guides my arms around his abdomen. His very hard, very flat abdomen. My body is automatically drawn forward to accommodate the hold, and my chest presses up against his back. God help me.
Warmth bleeds from him and through the very thin fabric of my dress and bra. And I’m intensely aware of every single place where my body is touching his. He smells faintly of grease, like the WD-40 I used on my bike as a kid, but somehow it smells good on him instead of acrid like it did back then. I kind of want to press my nose to his neck.
He turns on the bike, the beast of a thing rumbling to life beneath us, and heat that has nothing to do with the weather is quickly chasing away the internal chill that the phone call caused. My thighs are pressed along the edge of his, and there isn’t much of anything between the vibration of the bike and the awareness building between my legs. A faint oh escapes me.
“She’s got a lot of power,” he says, pride in his voice.
The noise and my own whirling thoughts are almost too much to talk over, so I just nod.
“Ready?”
“No,” I shout back.
He chuckles and I feel it against my chest. “Relax, Nat. I’ve got you.”
The bike jumps forward, and without thinking, I press my face into his shoulder and squeeze tight.
Chapter 3
Monroe
This chick is going to kill me. I merge onto the highway, working hard to focus on the road, as Natalie’s hold on me goes spider-monkey tight. Her face is buried against my shoulder, and I can feel every damn curve of hers pressing along my back. And though I’d actually attempted to be decent when she’d gotten on the bike, I’d caught a glimpse anyway. Now all I can think about is the fact that she’s got fuck-me red panties on beneath that bring-a-guy-to-his-knees dress.
But she’s not my date, and I’m not going to be seeing those panties or anything else tonight. No, I’m just the idiot going ten miles out of my way to help a sexy redhead meet up with her jackass boyfriend.
I know better than this, know not to mess with girls like her. The look on her face when I’d first gotten out of the truck told me everything I needed to know. She doesn’t see me as a member of the same planet she inhabits. She’s one of those uppity chicks from Texas Methodist University—the school that cost almost as much a semester as I make in a year. In her eyes, I’m just the help.
Usually that would piss me off enough to tell someone to go to hell, but Natalie had gotten under my skin back at the shop. Something about her doesn’t seem as distant and polished as the other debutante rich girls I’ve come across. There’s a realness there, a vulnerable side, one that had cracked wide open when her boyfriend said he wasn’t coming to pick her up.
What a douche bag. Canceling on a girl on her birthday is bad enough, but if this guy bailed on her to take some other girl out . . . well, then he deserves whatever Natalie’s planning to dish out. Though, part of me wonders if she’ll react outwardly at all. Apparently, she’s highly concerned with being nice and non-psycho and non-high-maintenance. Where’s the fun in that?
I run in circles where girls don’t take that kind of shit lying down. Most of my female friends go with the scorched-earth philosophy if a dude does them wrong. Screw one over, and she’ll make you rue the fucking day. I’d seen more than one of my friends taken down after making a stupid mistake. It’s one reason why I steer clear of relationships and stick to the casual stuff. I don’t need the drama. I like my life simple: take my classes, do my job at my brother’s shop, and have a little fun in between. Perfect. But that doesn’t mean a woman who isn’t afraid to spar with me won’t turn my head. It’s what had captured my interest with Natalie up front—well, besides the legs on her; those had been hard to miss. But it’d been disappointing to see her yield to some boyfriend.
Nice girls. Yawn.
Though, I admit the “do you know how dangerous this thing is” bit pushed a button I didn’t know I
had. That Miss Priss vibe she’s got going on kind of does it for me. It makes me want to get her dirty. Really, really dirty.
Images of all the things I’d like to do to her fill my brain as I exit the highway, and my dick goes hard against my zipper. I tighten my grip on my bike and try to rein in the X-rated thoughts before I look like some hard-up pervert. Thank God Natalie still has her face pressed to my back.
This is what I get for taking double shifts at the shop for the last few months. All work and no play has left me wound tight and sporting a hard-on for someone else’s girl. Pathetic. This is exactly why I can’t wait to head out for my summer trip. Open road. The beach. And no obligations but housesitting my buddy’s condo and taking in the view. Next week can’t come fast enough.
Before long, we pull onto the street Natalie requested, and I circle the block twice before finding a parking spot near the restaurant. I cut the engine and Natalie startles behind me, like she has no idea where we are.
She peels her grip from my T-shirt. “That was quick.”
“You kept your eyes closed the whole time, didn’t you?”
She climbs off my bike, pulls off the helmet, and gives me a sheepish grin. “Maybe.”
I shake my head then let my gaze trace over her windswept form. That wild red hair is killing me. “You missed a nice view of downtown when we drove in.”
She adjusts the neckline of her dress and hands me the helmet. “You can show me next time.”
“Next time, huh? You asking me out, princess?”
She presses her lips together. So prim. “That’s not what I meant. I was just saying it—”
“To be nice?” I ask, lifting a brow.
She catches my sarcasm and her eyes narrow. “I’m not that nice.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
She sighs and glances toward the restaurant, worry flickering over her features. “Well, I guess I’d better go in.”
“Want some backup?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s a mix-up and will turn out to be nothing.” But she’s still staring at the restaurant, looking like she’d rather eat a pile of rotten sushi than take another step.
