Page 58 of Ruled By Rivalry

“Only the special ones.” With a laugh, he gestured down the stairs, letting me go first. “No one’s worn them as well as you are, though.”

My cheeks warmed, my ears flushed, and I desperately wanted to kiss him. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, very deliberately, and asked a question I already knew the answer to: “Are you flirting with me, Ashwood?”

“Have been for a while. Thanks for noticing.”

His hand found the small of my back, and he led me down another flight before slipping it into mine so casually, I wasn’t sure he even noticed.

I did. My stomach and heart did, too.

Kissing him earlier had unleashed a desire I’d buried and denied for the past five years. Maybe ten. One that just couldn’t resist Elliot Ashwood, and with every touch wasn’t just reawakened, but fueled.

“I still get the car for public outings,” he noted. “No chauffeur, though, so you’ll have to make do with my driving.”

I was about to ask if I should be worried, but the question got stuck in my throat as he opened the door and revealed what was undeniably his car, lazily parked on the curb. Like it didn’t cost more than the entire building’s rent for the month.

I wasn’t an expert, but even I recognized the Porsche logo. Low, sporty, red-wine colored. Sleek and luxurious and special. So special, a group of eighth graders had stopped beside it, marveling so loudly we could still hear them from the top of the stoop. “Whose do you think it is?” one of them asked.

I took my hand out of Elliot’s just before he announced our presence. It was the right thing to do, I think. We weren’t together. Not like that. “That would be us,” he said.

Us.

Not his or his family’s or, God forbid, a loud demand that they scram. Just us.

The four boys turned, eyes wide as saucers, their mouths the same shape. Finally, when he’d made his way down to the car, the smallest of them worked up the courage to say, “It’s sick.”

Another one hastily added “Sir!” in sync with a slap to the first boy’s head for forgetting his manners. Instinctively, the smallest repeated “Sir!” before rubbing the back of his head.

Elliot huffed in amusement, but the sound was much gentler than I was used to. With the press of a button, he unlocked the car, and the doors automatically opened upward. “Wanna have a look inside?”

With gasps and repeated thank-yous, they scrambled for a look on the driver’s side. Then they took pictures of one another standing in front of it.

I stopped beside Elliot, just watching him watch them. With a dreamy smile on his lips, he played along whenever they looked his way, nodding proudly or answering their questions as they grew more comfortable.

How much did it cost? A lot.

How loud is it? Very.

“Can you rev it up for us? Just once?”

“Shouldn’t do that when the engine’s cold,” he said. His sheer presence had the boys take a step back, trying to hide their disappointment. “But,” he added, and nodded for me to get in, “good thing this baby’s warm and ready.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded so hot coming out of his mouth. He was talking about a car, of all things.

But being good with children wasn’t something I expected from Elliot Ashwood. Inside, my eyes flicked through the interior. The cream-colored leather of the seats contrasted with the deep, wine-red console perfectly. When my gaze wandered to the steering wheel, I realized there was a bow accenting the usual Porsche logo, and the kids’ exaggerated reaction made sense, suddenly.

I’d never paid much attention to the Ashwood empire beyond their fashion impact, but everyone knew they had their fingers in every industry possible. Luxury cars were part of that, too, and only five of this one were ever made.

By the time Elliot got in on the other side, I was actually cool, calm, and collected again. He let the windows down.

The boys were back on the sidewalk, phones out, cameras on the car. To their delight, Elliot revved the engine once, twice, and a third time before driving off. Faster than he should’ve, but you could still hear cheers a block away, so I didn’t say anything.

“Compliment a man’s car and you’ll make his day,” I said when I realized they weren’t the only ones thrilled by the interaction. Elliot’s eyes radiated pure joy, making their blue sparkle.

“Look.” He laughed defensively, but sobered quickly. “Things like this have always been . . . normal for me. I grew up with loud cars, expensive leather, and five-hundred-horsepower engines. It’s nice to see it being appreciated. Reminds me to do the same sometimes.”

Fair enough, I thought. So, he wasn’t a completely lost cause.

“So, yes, making their day made my day,” he added.