She should never have chosen such a silly alarm theme. It had already looped once, so there was zero possibility he had not recognized the song.
Of course, Mr. Auto-Recall-Lyrics sang with Carly Rae Jepsen, missing the high notes and stretching the “maybe” longer than the original. Undoubtedly, he would assume she’d watched the videos of lip-synching soldiers performing the hit. And the one of the Naval Academy grads. And the video with the guys dancing on earthmovers and front-end loaders. But none of that was because she searched for the videos, it was all because Jenni kept sending links and snarky commentary.
Grace absolutely did not have the hots for soldiers doing silly stunts, or at least not for all soldiers. Just for one.
She wanted to crawl under the futon when he waved jazz hands, but thankfully her haphazard fumblings finally shut down the alarm.
“My calls?”
“Yes, but—”
“Wait.” He found his phone and held it in the air for a long moment, his gaze locked with hers, and then infamous Korean pop music blared into the room. “For you.”
“‘Gangnam Style’ makes you think of me? Eh sexy lady? That is so—”
“Iron-ic. Maybe.”
“I was going to say out of date.”
“Yours. Hip? Think not.”
His eyebrows, so dark and lifted so high as he smirked, broke her. Maybe for good. She laughed until she couldn’t even sit up, but had to curl onto the carpet, clutching her stomach. “Agreed, we’re both hopeless.”
“This is crazy,” he warbled from his spot lying on the futon, laughing too. Laughing so hard that the hand he stretched to her shoulder vibrated.
He was perfect for her.
“This is the car?”Grace wished she’d checked closer last night when she had a prayer of backing out of the plan, but she’d been distracted by remembering reasons to wait longer before sex. Rey had stayed up later than she had, still tidying his immaculate apartment while she had drifted to sleep on the futon couch. Now her rental car had been returned.
Rey’s love was bright blue, a color that reminded her of a royal blue tang, a comparison heightened by black striping. On the hood, two air-intake thingies—at least, that was what she thought their function was—looked like nostrils. The front end was a snout, lengthened by the optical illusion of the black stripe running from the grille to the windshield. Shiny chrome rectangles perched above the bumper, all with some car function, but to her eyes they looked like teeth ready to open wide. His car was definitely alive.
“You think I’m driving this across the country?”
He pressed his lips swiftly to hers, then opened the driver’s door. “Grace, meet…Ten.”
“Jewel wasn’t kidding that you call it the Perfect Ten?” Two huge black vinyl seats, more like loungers, were separated by a streamlined armrest. Wood-grain finishes set off the chrome knobs and round instruments, reminding her of a vintage Chris-Craft boat more than a car. The rear sported a cavernous single bench from the days before seatbelts or ergonomic contours. At least it would hold his wheelchair.
“Ten, meet Grace.” He put her hand on the vinyl and covered it with his bigger one.
If a car could have personality—and since boats were individuals with names, she conceded that some cars might have character also—this was a straightforward and masculine ride, despite being categorized like a hot woman. Grace decided she liked the looks of Rey’s 442, although that didn’t mean she could drive it.
He slid into the driver’s seat, twisted off one prosthetic, then the other, and piled them on the passenger side. “Sit.”
The seat was large enough to share if she scooted her back against today’s shirt slogan, “Reason #3 Amps Do It Better: Battery Power.”
“Please.” He patted the space between his spread thighs and raised his eyebrows. Whether challenge or question, she couldn’t tell.
There was no delicate way to clamber across his leg and settle her butt between his thighs, and no chance that the act of lifting herself up and over hadn’t thrust her intimately close to every part of him that occupied her thoughts.
Her hands reflexively locked around the steering wheel while her mind catalogued how each time he inhaled, his chest pressed her shoulder blades. The driveway and street became insubstantial. The only thing she knew was the solidity of his body behind hers and around hers. She shifted in a small circle, maybe a bid to adjust her hips, but she liked how the motion rubbed her lower back against his body. Like scratching an itch, except it created another.
So attuned to his body that she could feel him begin to lean to the left, she tensed with expectation of his lips touching her neck. Her hair ruffled by her ear, as if he was breathing that close to her, but then the car door thudded shut.
She’d forgotten to close it. Cradled between his arms and chest, distracted out of her mind, she probably would havedriven out of the garage with the door open if he hadn’t taken charge.
This wasn’t going to work. But she wasn’t going to stop, not until they incinerated.
Removing her right hand from the steering wheel, he placed it on the gear shift. “Hold,” he whispered. “Tight.”
