I roll the window down with my heart flying through my chest. “Don’t do that!”
His grin widens. “Jumpy much?”
“You try being a female Uber driver on the streets of Chicago,” I mumble.
Despite wanting to refuse him a ride, I unlock the door. I angle my back toward him when he opens it, but the rich scent of his cologne fills my senses anyway.
He smells so incredibly good.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be Ubering,” he says, drawing out his words like he’s a father disappointed in his daughter's choice of employment.
I snap my attention to him. “I don’t really have a choice.”
The hours are flexible, and all you really need is a driver’s license. It’s not like I’m able to get hired somewhere that is flexible and pays decent with a half-finished college degree.
Silence settles between us, his gaze roaming all over my face, like he’s trying to read me or something. I have every urge to turn away, and I should. Except, he leans in close, and all I can focus on is his cologne.
What is he doing?!
Why is he so close to me?
And why am I not moving away?
I stop breathing in an attempt to snap myself out of the hypnosis his cologne is putting me in, but it doesn’t work.
He leans in even closer, and I feel my lips part. Malaki gulps, the deep dip of his Adam’s apple moving slowly against his neck. Warmth sprinkles against my skin, and I realize right away that my desperation runs deep. Malaki is practically a stranger, and yet, I’m longing for him.
He isn’t even touching me, and somehow, I feel him everywhere.
“Here,” he says, voice husky.
“Huh?” I mutter.
Malaki’s eyes shoot down to the small space left between us. His hand is there, palm up, with my phone in it. Heat rushes to my cheeks as reality settles back in.
He’s just trying to give me my phone!
He must’ve grabbed it while I was stuck in a fantasy land with a knot in between my legs from just looking into his eyes.
I jerk backward.
“Oh. Thanks.” I quickly reach for the traitorous device, and our fingers accidentally brush. A line of fire shoots up my arm, and I freak out. I fumble my phone, and it goes flying—again.
“Are you okay?” he asks, a line of worry digging in between his eyebrows.
“I’m fine,” I rush out. “Let’s just go and get this over with.”
Malaki chuckles and settles back into his seat. He adjusts it, sliding it backward, just like he did the other night. It wasn’t until I was hauling Charleigh’s car seat into the backseat that I had noticed, which then led to me googling how tall he was. Two hours later and I had a full background on Malaki Young.
He’s from Manhattan. Only child. No father was listed, just a mother who died several years ago from breast cancer. Hesigned a hefty contract with the Chicago Blue Devils and is currently in the running for MVP of the year. He finished college with a degree in political science before being drafted into the pros on a third-round pick.
Impressive? Sort of.
It sure puts my unfinished fashion and marketing degree, single mom who is Ubering to make ends meet self to shame, that’s for sure.
I’m driving for a total of five seconds before Malaki’s smooth voice fills the car.
“Two hundred?”
