“You are so full of yourself,” she hissed.
He shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s better than being full of something else.”
“Your ego, as big and overblown as it is, still leaves plenty of room for bullshit.”
She heaved a noticeable sigh. His eyes were drawn to her breasts like they were magnets. He didn’t know if she could tell where he was looking, but he knew she couldn’t cross her arms. Not in the position she was in now. This amused him. It probably shouldn’t. But fuck it. It did.
He looked up. She must have seen where he was looking. She was glaring at him. He didn’t need to see her eyes to know that.
“You could stand up, you know,” she spat.
I could. But I’m not going to.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“I heard you. You’re not exactly soft-spoken.”
“Don’t forget demure and genteel.”
“No, not that either.”
“Characteristics of the ideal lady,” she huffed.
“Who says?” He grinned when he heard her sigh. “You think you already know what I think is an ideal lady, is that it?”
“No,” she hissed. “Just forget it.” She pulled back, but he didn’t let go.
“Do you want to rip out your hair? Just be patient. It’s supposed to be a virtue.”
“You don’t strike me as patient,” she huffed.
“No good driver is.”
“Not true. The fact that you don’t know that might explain your performance the last few years. I know patience is a virtue when it comes to racing. That’s part of what makes me a damn good driver.”
His heart began to thump.
“We’ll see,” he said, gritting his teeth as he struggled to pull the hair gently from the zipper.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Vittori? Does it make you feel uncomfortable to see men so scantily clad?”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps what’s bothering you is not so much what the men are wearing but what they’re doing.”
“What do you mean, what they’re doing?”
“A woman’s job.”
“Serving coffee?”
“That’s right.”
“I didn’t say that, you did.”
Now he’d gotten it; he gently pulled the hair loose and leaned back.
“There,” he said.
