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Nicholas’s eyes narrow and he bends over to grab my keys the same moment I do. He snatches them first, giving me a first-hand look at the nasty bruise purpling his knuckles. I gasp, my hands flying to my lips. “Oh! Mr. Armatti! I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be.” He stretches out his fingers as he tests their movement. “I’ll punch a hundred men if it means keeping you safe.”
“You’re abusinessman,” I state plainly, my shock etched into my voice. “Youpunchedsomeone. Forme.”
It’s his turn to scoff as he tries the fob and it doesn’t work. “You need to replace this,” he grumbles, undoing the fob to place the manual key into the driver’s side door. “Get in.”
“You’renotdriving.” I stand there baffled by the fact that Sexy,BadassSanta is now getting into my driver’s seat. “You’renotdriving,” I repeat, opening the passenger side door to make sure he hears me. “You arenot driving me home!”
“I’m not letting you drive, and I don’t trust a taxi.”
“No one uses a taxi anymore.” My eyes roll so far back that it hurts. “PeopleUbernow, grandpa.”
“Regardless.” He leans over the console and grabs my hand, tugging me down until my front half is bent over the seat and my boobs are threatening to pop out. “Get in.”
Trying to reserve my dignity, I lay my arm over my chest and get into the car. “Fine. Do you know how to get to Victory Street?”
Nicholas’s right out of the parking garage and left at the next light, proving that he does, in fact, know how to get to Victory Street. We drive in silence as the lights pass in a blur, and my nerves finally start to settle. Nicholas’s cologne’s tinged with a hint of peppermint tonight, and it fills my lungs with that cool, crisp sensation that’s reminiscent of winter.
“You were a hit tonight,” I say when my apartment complex comes into view. I point at it and tell him the gate code to get in. The gate beeps but doesn’t call my phone - faulty mechanics - and we’re inside.
“That’s not safe,” he grumbles, frowning as he pulls up to my building. “You live a dangerous life, Miss James.”
I exhale harshly. “Says the man who punched someone like a pro. What are you hiding there, Nick?”
He glances over at me casually, despite the bruises I can clearly see from here. “You sure you want to know?”
The question hangs in the air as I lick my lips.Do I want to know?
Chuckling to himself, he turns off the engine and exits the car, coming around to my side to open the door and help me out.
“Thanks for driving me home,” I tell him, whole-heartedly meaning it. “And for, well, you know.”
Nodding like I just saidthanks for buying me lunchinstead ofthanks for punching some stranger who tried to harass me, Nicholas hands me my keys. “Do I need to walk you up?”
“I’m the first door here. I think I can manage.”
We stand awkwardly for about ten seconds before I avert my gaze. His eyes are too intense, like they’re searching for my soul to lock up and keep safe in a gilded cage. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow.”
“Come in late tomorrow. Your boss won’t mind.”
I laugh as I walk up the sidewalk to my door. “Goodnight, Mr. Armatti.”
“Call me Nick.”
“You liked that, huh?” I tease, unlocking my door. Shaking my head, I hold my door open as I look at him one last time.
“How are you getting home?”
He holds up a cell phone. “I’m calling anUber.”
My mind wars with my heart as I consider letting him wait inside my apartment. On the one hand, it’s the nice thing to do. But on the other, he looks like a Holiday Sex God that could pin me down and rip through these tights in a heartbeat.
My body warms at the image, and I bite my lip as heat pools in my lower belly.Get a grip, Julie!You can invite him inside without it meaning anything!
“Do you… want to come inside?”
“Do you want me to come inside?” he asks, holding the phone mic away from his face.
