Page 7 of Working for the Runaway Bride

The immediate apology makes me feel like an ass. I shift the box beneath one arm. “Don’t apologize. Just pull over next time.”

“All right.”

“Call me.”

Her eyes meet mine. “You?”

“Yes.”

“Not Carter?”

I glance toward her car. There are too many possible answers to that question, and none I can give without telling her about the woman I heard in the background.

“If your car is having trouble,” I say carefully, “call the mechanic.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “That makes sense.”

“Usually does.”

She laughs again.

The sound does something uncomfortable to the center of my chest.

I clear my throat. “Where do you want this?”

“My classroom. But you don’t have to carry it. I can⁠—”

“I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Molly, I rebuild engines for a living. I can manage a box full of construction paper.”

“The rabbit is heavier than he looks.”

I glance at the stuffed animal. “I’ll take my chances.”

The tow truck pulls into the school parking lot, the engine rumbling low. We move to the car together. She leans in through the open driver’s door to grab something from the console, and I reach past her for the keys still swaying from the ignition. Our arms brush first, then our bodies. The space is tight between the doorframe and the seat, forcing us closer than either of us planned.

My chest presses against her back. Her ass nestles right against my hips.

We both freeze.

“Shit—sorry,” I mutter, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. The door’s wedged against my shoulder, and she’s twisted awkwardly, one hand still reaching for the keys. My fingers close over hers on the keyring. Warm skin. Delicate bones. A spark shoots straight through me.

Her breath catches. I feel it ghost across my forearm, hot and quick, like a whisper not meant for me. She shifts, trying to make room, but the movement only grinds her softer curves harder against me. My body reacts instantly—blood rushing south, thickening, pressing insistently against the seam of my jeans right where her dress has ridden up just a fraction.

Fuck.

I’m rock hard in seconds, the heat of her seeping through our clothes. She’s breathing faster now, little puffs that brush my wrist and send goosebumps racing up my arm. I can smell her—lavender, shampoo, and something warmer, feminine, that makes my cock twitch against her. She has to feel it. There’s no way she doesn’t.

“Grayson…” Her voice is a husky murmur, half protest, half invitation. Her fingers flex under mine on the keys, but she doesn’t yank away. Instead, her back arches the tiniest bit, pressing those perfect curves more firmly into me.

I swallow hard, my free hand bracing on the roof of the car to keep from gripping her waist. My mind floods with images I shouldn’t be having in a damn elementary school parking lot: sliding my palm under that skirt, feeling the heat between her thighs, hearing her moan my name while I rock against her just like this. Thinking this way about my son’s fiancée should put me back in prison.

“You’re stuck,” I rasp, voice low and rough near her ear. My stubble grazes her temple. Her breath hitches again. Every shallow inhale makes her breasts rise against my arm, and I’m throbbing now, aching with how badly I want to grind forward, to let her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.

She turns her head just enough that our eyes lock. Hers are dark, pupils blown wide. “So are you,” she whispers.