“I always thought we were opposites, but I didn’t quite comprehend just how different we were until we started working together.”
Pulling my keys from my purse, I lock up and spin around to face him.
“You like to ask for permission rather than forgiveness, whereas I’ll go ahead and take what I want anyway. To hell with the consequences.”
As we both walk toward the elevator, I press the Call button when we reach the end of my hallway.
“Something tells me that Candice Hale would not appreciate your approach to life.”
He shifts from one foot to the other, scrubbing a hand across a clean-shaven jaw. “Yeah, well, that was a mistake that I won’t be repeating. Hooking up with people you work with is a bad idea.”
The elevator doors open, and we both step inside, an unexplainable silence settling between us as we ride to the underground parking garage.
Will pulls out his phone and clicks a couple of buttons, and when the elevator doors open again, his scarlet-red Ferrari Roma roars to life in the space directly opposite the elevator.
The smug smile he’s wearing is so typically Will when he steps out of the elevator and walks backward so he can face me.
I want to frown at him—I really do.
“Come on, Baby.” He thumbs over his shoulder, and despite myself, I giggle. “Let’s take my new girl for a ride.”
13
. . .
Will
Holy fucking shit.
I thought that asking Drew to drive us to the gala would be a fun way to spend more time with a girl who is increasingly on my mind, even when she isn’t sending me multiple emails.
Turns out, her behind the wheel of a supercar is the equivalent of me in the rink.
She’s a goddamn natural.
The long slit that leads up her right thigh, hitting higher than normal when she depresses the clutch, has me staring out of the windshield and recounting the former Seattle Scorpion’s captain and NHL Hall of Famer, Jon Morgan’s, best goalscoring seasons in chronological order.
Where the fuck has this Drew been hiding?
When we reach a stoplight and she shifts into neutral, I chance a quick glance her way.
Glossy pink lips are tipped into the cutest smile as she drums her fingernails on the steering wheel.
“How do you know?—”
“How to drive a car like this?” She tips her head to one side as she turns to look at me.
The dress she’s wearing should be illegal—the way it dips down at the front, revealing smooth skin but zero cleavage. The shoulder straps are so thin that it makes the bodice look like a corset, but somehow, their presence gives the dress an even sexier effect.
To me, there’s something about a woman who gives nothing away—emotionally or physically—to a guy, allowing his imagination to interpret what lies beneath.
Drew is exactly that type of woman, and I stand by what I said to her the other week—Paul Tierney wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit him straight between the eyes.
My brain itches to tell her that again, but I hold myself back because I’m eager to know how she learned to drive like Michael Schumacher.
Drew shifts into gear, totally forgoing the flappy paddles on the steering wheel, and we take off down the road.
“You know my dad and his love for muscle cars.” Drew shifts gears again and holds the steering wheel with one hand, the other waving about, like a prop to her story. Confidence oozes from her every pore right now and?—
