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No, not good. The best.
I pull up to the address she gave me, only to find that she’s standing outside the building waiting for me. Before I can unbuckle my seatbelt, she’s also trying to open her door.
“What are you doing?” I bellow through the window before hopping out and running around to her side.
She dips one perfectly arched brow at me. “Opening my car door?”
I shake my head. “You don’t do that here.”
“Excuse me?”
I take a step closer, which allows me to inhale the sweet smell of her perfume. Fuck, that’s intoxicating…
“If I’m with you, you don’t open a car door. Got it?”
“Max,” she says with a huff. “I can open my own car door.”
“I know you can. But you shouldn’t,” I say, and my voice goes an octave lower. “So when I’m here, you don’t. Got it?”
“Max, you’re not my boyfriend, you don’t have?—”
I hold up my finger to her mouth. “Not another word. I’m going to do this for you whether I’m your boyfriend or not. The fact you thought you had to is already making my blood boil, because that means you’ve been with a man who didn’t do the bare fucking minimum. Today that changes. So I’m going to open your car door for you. Got it?”
She nods, and I watch her swallow. Which gives me a little spark of hope that she’s feeling the heat between us, too.
“Good. Now get in the car, Andi.”
I open the door for her, and she slowly gets in, looking up at me through hooded eyes as I make sure she’s settled before closing the door. I take an extra few seconds to get to my side, needing the time to calm down.
Be cool. This is your shot. Don’t scare her. Don’t go too far. Be the man she deserves.
With a quick breath I get back into the car and throw it into drive. I zoom out of downtown to hit the highway, heading east.
“Can I ask where we’re going?” she says.
“You can,” I say. “But I’m not going to tell you.”
She lets out a tiny, adorable growl. “I don’t like this.”
“What?”
“Surprises. I’m a planner. Which means any sort of surprise or shock is very stressful.”
“I figured that,” I say. “Which is why I told you to bring socks. That’s all your little control freak brain needed to know.”
“How do you know what my control freak brain needs to know?”
“Because I know you.”
I see her turn toward me out of the corner of my eye, a defiant look shooting my way. “Okay, Mister Know-It-All. Tell me. What is it you know about me?”
I could go into how her long, brown hair reminds me of a Disney princess, or that her pouty lips make me lose sleep at night. That her perfectly curvy body makes me sweat every time I see her. If this were the 1950s, she’d be a pinup girl and the fantasy of every man in America.
But I don’t, for obvious reasons.
“You want five olives in your martini. Not four, not six, five.”
“That doesn’t count. I order that every week.”
