“I really don’t mind,” Lex insists, seemingly amused by my misfortune.
“I don’t want you to make a detour for me.”
“Where do you live?”
“Genesee.”Please, let him live on the other side of town.
“That works for me.”
Well, fuck… This is awkward, tense, and not how I expected tonight to go.
My boss is driving me home on a late Friday evening with my address on his GPS and my wet ass sitting on the fine leather of his seat. Wet because of the rain, of course. Not because of the way his hands move every time he takes a turn or because the surrounding air smells of him.
Okay, maybe a bit of that, too.
There’s a play button on the electronic screen between us, and because the silence is so uncomfortable, I boldly press it.
“Resuming the current playlist,” the feminine electronic voice answers.
Fuck, I expected it to turn on the radio or something. But I can now see that it’s connected to his phone. I’m about to know even more about the man, which can’t be a good thing.
When I turn to him, I notice his discreet wince. “I don’t mind. But you might regret your decision. I’ve been told I have terrible taste in music,” he confesses, never ripping his eyes from the road.
Oh, this should be interesting…
My curiosity is properly piqued, and all my attention is now on the intro that fills the silence. I’m almost ashamed of how quickly I recognize it. But it’s so unexpected that I doubt myself for several seconds. This can’t be it. No fucking way.
But there’s no denying it. It’s “Rasputin”, by Boney M. The giggle that rolls in my throat turns into a graceless snort when I try to muffle it. I press my hand over my lips in a failed attempt to hide my wide smile.
“Are you making fun of me?” he asks.
“I’m sorry, it’ll pass. I just really wasn’t expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?”
The genuine curiosity in his tone makes me consider the question. Probably something boring, like classical music or jazz, but I can’t tell him that. “I didn’t expect Boney M,” I diplomatically say.
With a broad smile still on my face, I look out my window, listening to the catchy tunes. The words dance on my lips, but I don’t allow them to be voiced.
He still notices. “You made fun of me, yet you know the words.”
“Of course I know them—everybody does. I just really didn’t thinkyoulistened to it.”
“Maybe we should stop before another song starts,” he suggests.
And that only triggers my need to know what comes next. I press the button to skip “Rasputin”, and, to my amazement and hilarity, “Build Me Up Buttercup” resonates in the car. A new series of chuckles escapes me.
“If you’re going to mock me the entire way, I’d rather we go with silence,” he argues as we’re stopped at a red light.
His hand flies to the screen to stop the music. Instinctively—clearly without thinking—I grab his wrist to prevent him from pressing the button. “No! I swear, I’m not making fun of you. I love those songs. It’s just unexpected.”
My fingers are wrapped around his wrist, and my other hand rests over the back of his. I can’t help but notice that his wrist is as thick as my ankles. If there is a correlation between the size of a man’s hand and the proportions of his appendage, then Lex isseriouslyhung.
And it’s suddenly all I can think of.
How big, girthy, and long his—
A car honks somewhere, making me jump and release him. My cheeks are burning, and I hope to God he blames my redness on the traffic light. I swiftly slide my hands under my thighs in an attempt to keep them away from temptation.
