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“I got rid of it,” the silence answers back in Jericho’s voice, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Across from me, Jericho slides out from under the black Mustang on one of those roller trolley things mechanics use when they’re fixing cars. I suddenly realize that’s what he was doing.
And he’s shirtless.
With a smirk on his face, he pushes to his feet, showing off the myriad of masterpiece of muscles and tattoos on his abs.
My unrestrained eyes, which have no shame, move straight to those abs and explore the peaks and valleys chiseled in the expanse of each muscle group.
The boy I used to know had a six pack, a dragon tattoo on the right side of his torso, and more dragons on his arms. Knight did those for him when they owned a tattoo shop way back when.
Jericho was what the girls at school—to my misfortune—called lickable.
Now his chest looks like it was sculpted from rock and has more inky designs. There’s a wolf and an eagle, Japanese characters mixed with Celtic swirls and Egyptian hieroglyphics.
If I were to explain it to anyone, they’d think it sounded like too much, but it’s not, and each design is so intricately done to perfection, the temptation is to stare and stare and stare.
“Gonna stare at me all day, Mermaid?” he asks with a cocky grin and an equally arrogant wink.
My eyes snap up to meet his. “Um…”
“I never said I minded, especially if I get to look at you, too.” He scans my body the way he’s done every time he’s seen me.
I shake off the rising arousal clogging my throat and remember what he said about my car.
“Did… you just say you got rid of my car?” I narrow my eyes at him and fold my arms under my breasts.
“Yeah.” He raises a brow. “It’s a miracle that thing could even drive.”
I glare at him. “You got rid of my car?” My voice is firmer, with emphasis on each word. “I had stuff I wanted inside it.”
“The stuff is in the living room in a box, and no, that piece of shit is no longer your car. Yournewcar has been ordered from the dealer. It will be delivered sometime next week. Until then, George will drive you to wherever you want.”
George ishis driver. I didn’t see the need for him when I had my own wheels to get me around from A to B, particularly on early mornings like these when I want to go to the studio.
“There was nothing wrong with my car.”
“The wheels were shit, the bodywork shit, the steering shit and just begging for an accident, the car was fucking shit. Also, no wife of mine is going to be driving around in junk like that.” He intensifies his stare and nods with conviction, but I focus on that weird word in reference to me that sounded so strange on his lips.
Wife.
He said wife, and it’s the first time this is really sinking in.
I’m going to behiswife.
I can’t wrap my head around it, not even a little bit, but I must.
“In any event, where were you off to at this hour? I certainly hope it wasn’t work.”
“No. I practice sometimes at the dance studio.”
He walks to the table opposite me, giving me a good view of the dragon tattoo inked into the muscles of his hard back. He grabs his T-shirt and pulls it on, covering the view I’m sure most women would pay for with their last cent.
“George can take you there in two hours, if that works for you.” He searches my eyes.
“That works.”
“Great, in the meantime, we could have a quick chat about the rest of my plans.”
