When Nick reached across to open the glove box, his forearm grazed my knee and it was like a bolt of lightning.
Shit. Was thatchemistry? This wouldn’t do. Not if we were going to be cooped up in this sex-wagon for the best part of an hour.
Marvin singing ‘I Want You’ didn’t help.
‘Looking for your driving gloves?’ I said, resorting to humour to defuse the situation. Not that Nick looked like he needed any sort of release. The chemistry was all in my head. Probably.
‘Sunglasses,’ he said, fishing out a pair of Oakleys.
Unsurprisingly, the addition of dark glasses did nothing to lower my levels of discomfort. Did he have any idea how good-looking he was right now? Good job he wasn’t my type.
‘Do you have a girlfriend, Nick?’
How hadthatslipped out? I didn’t feel tipsy, but I sure as hell had to be.
The car jerked as if he’d released the clutch too fast.
I couldn’t tell what he was thinking now that he had sunglasses on. Maybe he hadn’t heard me.
‘I was seeing someone in Mexico.’
Past tense. ‘What happened?’
He glanced at me. ‘Is this a therapy session?’
‘I was just making conversation.’
More silence.
‘She ran off with a bullfighter.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Well, he was an actor in a telenovela who played one. But bullfighter sounds better.’
‘Mexican soaps sound fun.’
‘I used to think so, too.’
I couldn’t suppress a smile. Nick glanced at me. ‘Glad you find my pain so funny.’
‘I’m sorry, Nick. You’re right. It’s not funny. But it could have been worse. If you were in England and she’d run off with a British soap star, you’d have to tell people she left you for a market-stall holder.’
‘Gee, I feel so much better.’
‘You have to laugh, though, don’t you? What’s the alternative?’
‘Throwing yourself into work. Swearing off relationships.’ He looked over at me. ‘Having the occasional hook-up.’
I kept my eyes forward. ‘Sounds like pretty good advice, if you ask me.’
Had I just told him I was up for hooking up with him? The idea was suddenly very appealing. No-strings sex with Nick so I could forget this Simon-shaped knot in my stomach.
He didn’t speak, and instead concentrated on the road. My eyes drifted to his hands; one on the gear stick, the other loosely resting on the wheel. He had good hands. Big but not fat. No tufty hairs on the knuckles. Hands that knew what to do. Hands that could grab you, but not too roughly. Caress you with light touches, then build to something more insistent, more urgent...
God, I was having a heart attack in my knickers.
I peered out of my window, trying to clear the images in my head. They involved lips as well as hands. And skin. Lots of skin.
