Page 41 of The One Timer

She chuckles. “You know I’m not frail—not yet anyway, honey.” I love it when she calls me honey. It feels like she’s covering me in real honey—sweet and smooth and soothing.

I help Gran from the car, and Em follows. She waits while I walk Gran to the back door, giving her a big hug. She exchanges a wave with Em, and they promise to see each other tomorrow. That sends a surge of excitement pepping up my previously tired step. Tomorrow.

After seeing Gran inside, the limo pulls away, and I jog back to Em. She’s standing in front of the carriage house, otherwise known as the garage.

“I thought you were driving me, but I don’t see a car.”

I turn her around, guide her inside the door, then turn on the light. Two cars sit, shining under the light. “The cool car is mine.”

She looks between them. “I give up. Either car couldn’t be cooler if they were made of ice.”

“An ice car—now, that would be cool. We’ll have to consider that next time we have an ice sculpture commissioned⁠—”

She snaps her eyes to mine. “Next time you have an ice sculpture commissioned? Really?” She shakes her head and takes a step back from me like I’m talking about murder for hire instead of hiring an ice sculptor.

“Is there a problem? You okay?” The flash of her gold eyes triggers memories of all her passion from our night together. But I have a feeling this passion is less about wanting to jump my bones and more about wanting to smack me. “What’s the matter? Did you once witness a tragic ice sculpting accident?”

She snorts and suppresses a laugh. “No, of course not. Everyone I know has ice sculptures done at least twice a year. Who wouldn’t? Wait, let me see… That would be everyone I’ve ever known. Except you.” She spreads her arm towards the two cars. “These cars are worth more than everything I own, times a million. And who commissions ice sculptures like it’s the same as taking a photo?” She’s shaking her head like she’s trying to reconcile an alien sighting.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to sound so bougie. I’m an ass sometimes, but only when I come home to Beacon Hill. It’s like another world for sure. But it’s my world—and harmless.” I flash her a smile meant to disarm her, but she goes introspective.

She mumbles something like, “There’s nothing harmless about you,” as she turns to the two cars. “Of course, the Porsche 911 is yours. And the big Mercedes belongs to your grandmother.”

“You sure about that?” I tease.

She smirks. “Mrs. W is quite a sporting old gal, but red isn’t her color.”

I slip the keys from my pocket and open the Porsche’s door for her. She gets in reluctantly, and once I’m behind the wheel, I engage the garage’s auto door opener and start it up, appreciating the classic purr of the engine.

“We should get you home in no time. This baby is fucking fast—sorry—I mean⁠—”

“We’ll get there in no time because I live fucking close. So close you won’t have a chance to drive fast. It’s a quick ride even when I bike it.”

“Hopefully, not too quick to have a talk,” I say, putting aside the fact that she bikes to work in the fucking winter. Having a talk was my ulterior motive for offering to give her a ride—one of many too complicated to name, if I’m honest.

“A talk?”

“Yeah. The one where you explain to me why you lied about who you are and that you take care of my gran.”

She meets my gaze. The Porsche continues to purr while we sit in the garage, and I realize we need to pull into the alley before the exhaust accumulates, so I do.

“I work for your grandmother. I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want her to find out…” She waves a hand.

I nod. “I can see where that might be awkward.”

“Awkward? It’s more like I don’t want to lose my job. Technically, I stole those tickets and then had a one-nighter with the woman’s treasured grandson.” She blows out a breath.

“A one-timer,” I correct her, but I don’t understand her guilt. “Seriously? You know Gran well enough to know she wouldn’t fire you unless you turned out to be an ax murderer, right?”

“I’m not so sure. You mean the world to her, and I…you know…” She waves her hand around again.

“Are you part Italian? You seem to talk with your hands a lot. But I confess, I don’t understand the language.”

She gives me the finger. “Understand?”

I laugh.

She blows out a breath. “Sorry. Bad habit when I get flustered.” She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, you know that.”