Page 21 of Handle Me

“Try those on,” I ordered.

Anders reached behind his head and hooked his collar with a finger.

“In there!” I pushed him toward the dressing room door.

“Sure you don’t want to help me, boss?” he asked as I shooed him inside. He immediately began to take off his clothes.

I slammed the door shut, wishing for a few more glimpses of his perfect body. I could resist him. I could keep him at a distance, but would it be so bad to appreciate the view. I went straight across the room and poured myself a glass of champagne. I might as well just drink out of the bottle. I was on my second glass while perusing a copy of Trend magazine when Anders appeared wearing the suit I’d picked out.

A second became a minute as I took in living proof that men in suits were just sexier. Its deep sapphire color set off his eyes. The suit itself was cut in a modern style that was tailored to fit closely to his body, and he’d kept it casual by leaving the white Oxford he wore under the jacket unbuttoned at the top. The jacket showed off his biceps and broad shoulders. Anders turned in a circle and I caught sight of his tight ass in the trousers. He looked good enough to lick and for a minute, I forgot my determination to keep things professional between us.

“What do you think, boss?” he asked with a wink as he adjusted a cufflink.

“You should only wear this.” It slipped out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. I scrambled to correct the mistake. “It’s better than T-shirts and jeans.”

“I don’t need a suit,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve got one and that new tuxedo you sent me last week. I can’t wear this to the track.”

“Is that so?” I challenged him. “Giovanni Rossi wears Dolce & Gabbana to press conferences. Michel Germaine wears Dior regularly.”

“Who cares?” he asked, but there was conflict in his eyes. I’d done my research. I could list at least five more racecar drivers who appreciated men’s fashion enough to appear in various style columns. Anders had to have noticed, too.

But I knew exactly how to convince him he needed this suit in particular. “You can wear it tonight.”

“Where?” he asked. “I don’t have plans.”

“You do now,” I said smiling sweetly.

His eyes narrowed into steely flint streaks.

“You have a date,” I explained.

“With whom?” he asked slowly.

I licked my lips, gathering up my courage and hoping I looked detached. “With me.”

CHAPTER NINE

ANDERS

“Where is your head?” Wilkes demanded as I climbed out of the Renault and tried to shake off my piss-poor lap time.

Thank God Lola had asked me to drop her at my house before I went to the track. I couldn’t imagine what she’d think if she’d seen that performance. Then again, she didn’t drive, so maybe she would still be impressed.

“Earth to Prince Anderson!” Wilkes snapped his fingers to get my attention.

I shook my head, trying to physically jolt her out of my thoughts. “Sorry. I’m preoccupied with something.”

“Something wouldn’t happen to be a particularly fit publicist who stole your socks, would it?” he asked. “Because I didn’t see her on the track today, so what’s she doing in your head?”

I tossed my helmet to one of the crew who shot me a sympathetic smile. Everyone on the team had been on the receiving end of a Wilkes lecture. I had a feeling that by the time I managed to free myself from Lola’s iron grip, I’d hold some type of record for most lectures given by a coach in history.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I told him. It wasn’t so much a lie as it was a fib. I’d passed out, which hardly counted as sleeping, and I’d been woken up early by Lola grinding her perfectly round rear against my—

Wilkes punched my shoulder. “Again? It’s like talking to a wall.”

“Sorry. It won’t happen again. Let’s take it around the track one more time.”

“No fucking way.” He laughed at the suggestion. Wilkes paused to look at a computer screen, sighed, and let his head fall before muttering, “Not good.”