Page 64 of When There Was You
He joins in. “I meant in my car.”
“Digging a deeper hole…”
“You have a filthy mind.”
Not usually, but you’re crossing every barrier I’ve fought to erect.“I’d love to go for a ride in your car.” And maybe take the other ride too. A full-body shiver courses through me, remembering Butch’s king-sizeeverything.
“Pick you up at eleven?” Mr. Deep Voice snaps me back to the present. “We can snag lunch somewhere out and about?”
“It’s a date.”
The next morning,my intercom buzzes at five to eleven. His punctuality—eagerness?—pleases me.
“It’s your handsome driver,” Butch says, voice crackling through the system.
Cue idiotic smile. “Be down in a sec.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m coming to get you.”
“Even though we’re going to turn around and go right back downstairs?”
“Don’t question my chivalry, baby.”
Baby?Instant access. And don’t even get me started with the chivalry part.
At my door minutes later, the vision he presents damn near puts me on life support. Hair the color of aged bourbon framing his face. Get-lost-in-me eyes the shade of vibrantevergreens. The sheervolumeof him packaged in jeans, a well-fitting Henley, and a broken-in, brown leather jacket. Lord, have mercy.
His eyes sweep me, and judging by his hungry gaze, my effort’s paying off. My hair’s styled, make-up natural, and I’ve paired a cat-black sweater with fitted Levi’s and my favorite suede boots.
“You look gorgeous, Sundance.”
“You too, Lumberjack.”
“Come again?” he says, cracking a smile.
My hand swirls in the air, gesturing his way. “You know you’re like a hot, foresty lumberjack, right?”
His head cocks, and one of his hands scrapes the scruff of his jaw. “Yeah…no.” He looks almost embarrassed. “Ready to go?”
I nod and Butch takes my hand. My insides jolt at his touch, and that dormant heart of mine sparks to life.
We grin at each other in the elevator and out the lobby doors. Little palpitations skitter through me from our hands woven together, his nearness, his obvious desire.He likes me.Nothing is more ego-inflating than being wanted.
His Plymouth fastback comes into view, the chrome Barracuda emblem splashed along the rear. Once I’m secure in the passenger-side bucket seat, I scan the all-black interior, dashboard features, custom steering wheel, and Hurst shifter. The faint aroma of car cleaner mixes with Butch’s woodsy scent with maple notes.Eau de Lumberjack.
My driver straps himself in and cranks the ignition, and the rumble sparks my other dormant body organ to life. God, I’ve missed that sound, that vibration, sitting front and center in one of these heavily horse-powered machines.
It’s a little like taking a long, hot shower after a California drought, only tinged with a dash of bittersweet. Butch casts me another infectious grin, obliterating all thoughts.
He drives carefully through city streets, thrilling me whenhe revs the engine or screeches off the line with just enough torque to lightly fishtail. Once we enter the highway, he opens her up. Ilovegoing fast, and when the familiar rush hurtles through my cells, I whoop loudly. A sidelong glance at the man expertly driving this machine shows a satisfied smile edging his lips.
I long to open the windows and let the wind kiss my face, but that’s not happening on this September morning. It may be sunny, but it’s cool outside with an even chillier breeze, and I’m grateful Butch turned on the heat.
After a stretch, he exits the highway, and I’m surprised how quickly we’re passing undeveloped spaces with farms, fields, or towering trees only twenty minutes from a major metropolis.
“You like ‘bacon roads,’ Sundance?”
“What are those?”
