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“Steal it? No, I’m afraid someone will get lost inside there,” he grumbles, glancing at the piles of stuff in the back.
“I’ll have you know that’s all stuff for work,” I tell him, placing my hands on my hips and glaring at him.
One eyebrow arches skyward. “If you get in an accident, your cause of death will be blunt force trauma from all the crap in your car hitting you.”
I almost crack a smile as my foot hits one of the puddles in the lot from tonight’s downpour. “That’s descriptive.”
“Clean out your car, Freedom. And when was the last time you had the oil changed?” he asks, almost absently.
“I changed it two weeks ago.”
Now both eyebrows are raised. “You changed it?”
My mouth drops open. “Of course I changed it. Who else would do it?”
“A shop?”
I roll my eyes and slip into the driver’s seat, my knee hitting an angel charm that dangles from my ignition switch. “I don’t need to pay someone to change my oil, Sammy. I am more than capable,” I answer, shoving my key into the ignition and turning it over.
Only the car doesn’t start. It makes a sad, crying noise. I try a few more times, silently willing the car to fire to life, but the Gods of Car Care ignore my pleas.
Samuel sighs again. He does that a lot around me. I sort of turned it into a game years ago. You know, trying to see how many times I can get him to sigh in resignation or annoyance. I lost count years ago on how often he does it, but I believe that means I win the game regularly.
“Come on, Freedom. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“But what about my car?” I ask, slipping out of the seat and pulling the hood lever. “Let me just check under the hood.”
A big fat raindrop falls on my forehead, followed quickly by a few more. “You can check it out tomorrow,” he says, just as the skies let loose another downpour. “Lock your doors!” he hollers, taking off his suit jacket and holding it up over my head.
I reach inside the vehicle for my keys and bag, slam the door, push the lock button and make a mad dash for the passenger side of Samuel’s car. He tries to hold up his jacket, but with the amount of rain falling from the angry sky, it’s no use. We’re both soaked in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting drenched as he holds the door open for me, trying to shield me from the rain with his jacket and body. Inside the car, I shake like a dog. There’s no use trying to preserve his expensive leather seats at this point. I’m soaked. He’s soaked. There’s water everywhere.
The driver’s door opens and he jumps inside, tossing his jacket onto the back seat. Samuel grumbles under his breath, something about dry cleaning and car details, but I don’t really pay much attention. Instead, my eyes are locked on his shirt. Specifically, the way his crisp white dress shirt molds wetly to his torso. I can see his undershirt beneath it, but it does nothing to prevent the material from casting to his upper body.
My mouth waters and I glance away.
He fires his much newer car to life and cranks up the warm air. “Let’s get you home,” he says, his voice sounding…deeper.
I can only nod as images of his arms parade through my mind like the opening scene of a porno.
When he doesn’t pull out of the parking spot, I finally glance his way. His eyes are locked on me, on my…chest. Glancing down, that’s when I realize I’m soaked clean through, my blue tank top no longer flowy and light. Instead, it clings seductively to my body, giving him a clear view of my nipples. My very hard nipples.
I look up, watching his throat work hard to swallow. He turns away from me, throws the car in reverse, and drives out of the lot. I take in his defined arms, his wet hair, and the hint of his sex position socks peeking out of his trousers. Even soaked, he looks hot. He shouldn’t look hot, but he does.
He always looks hot.
Dammit.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll be diddling myself later tonight to images of Samuel Grayson.
