There’s nothing quite like it—flooring it on an open stretch of the Dallas North Tollway, blowing the speed limit to oblivion in a McLaren 720S Spider convertible. Late-night driving in Dallas usually means a few cop-free sections are wide open, giving me exactly the stretch of road I need to rev the shit out of this 710-horsepower engine.
“A beautiful end to a beautiful—”
Boom!
The loud bang startles me, and I tighten my grip on the wheel until my knuckles are white. Instantly, the dashboard lights up like the Fourth of July as I ease off the gas. I’ve got control of the vehicle, but it’s a fight.
The telltale thump-thump-thump is enough to tell me I need to keep the steering steady as I slowly veer to the far right of the nearly empty freeway.
Changing a tire isn’t exactly rocket science. I think. But in my Chanel suit and Louboutin’s, I’m a little overdressed for the occasion. My responses to Jaclyn’s concerns about my apparel before I left the office to head to the airport flit through my mind.
No, Jaclyn, I don’t need to change my clothes. I’ll do it on the jet.
Your comfy Missy Moscow silk-cashmere tracksuit? I wouldn’t think of borrowing your favorite loungewear.
Tennies? Oh, these stilettos are like a second skin.
The heels I’m wearing aren’t exactly great for hopping on a lug wrench to loosen tight lug nuts, but hey, what can I say?
Obviously, I’m a total idiot.
After shutting off the engine, I release my seat belt and pop the trunk, which I only just learned this afternoon is at the front of the sporty beast. I lean into the trunk, fishing through my duffel, cursing when my search rapidly ends in disappointment.
No sensible shoes. Just another pair of spiky five-inch heels. Note to self: when packing two pairs of shoes, diversify. Don’t think: Why would I need them? The jet always has the plushest slippers waiting for me.
Blowing out a long, determined breath, I strip to my black camisole, saving my couture blazer to live another day.
Sure, this spaghetti-strap number is barely holding in my girls, but it’s fine under a blazer and pairs well with the black pencil skirt I’m wearing. This outfit is killing it for rocking a nightclub. For changing a tire? Passable.
At least it’s not too chilly tonight.
When a flood of headlights washes over me, I’m a little mortified that the beams catch me with my butt hanging out as I dig through the trunk. I whirl around, shielding my eyes from the blinding-white light with my arm. Instantly, the arriving car kills its engine, and the million-watt beams of light pinning me in place vanish.
“Need some help?” a husky voice calls out.
Even from the shadows, I can see the tall stranger who approaches is definitely handsome. With the freeway lights overhead, I make out enough detail to know three things.
One, the man is local, based on his Texas plates.
Two, the smile on his stubbled face gives his hard jaw a warmth that’s a deadly combination of both sweet and naughty.
And three, his body is absolutely lickable, with the chisel of every muscle barely contained beneath his dark T-shirt and stylish jeans. Hell, with arms like that, he could practically lift the car like a toy and pop the wheels off with his fingertips.
Before I can respond, he moves to the side of the car, examining the flat tire while rubbing his face.
And that’s when I recognize him. Cup o’ cock. From the coffee shop.
“It’s a flat,” he says, stating the obvious.
“Yes. I was about to change it.”
With a huffed laugh, he scratches his head while his gaze slowly sweeps over me. “Uh, you can’t change this tire.”
I’m pretty sure for any woman born after the 1800s, words like that are a big, fat trigger. Heels be damned, I’m changing this tire for women everywhere. Asshole.
“Well, Triple-A, I appreciate your opinion, but women can do a lot of things. Work. Vote. Think. And I can sure as hell change a tire.” Repeating the words of my father, spoken time and time again whenever I tried to con a guy into doing something that might chip a nail, I proudly say, “I am beholden to no man.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be changing my tire.”
“Okay.” The patronizing tone in his drawn-out word is annoying as hell. And it pisses me off to stratospheric levels when he nonchalantly plops his ridiculously tight ass on the hood of his car to watch. “I’ll be here when you need me.”
“If I need you. And you don’t have to.”
“Look, I can tell by your I am woman, hear me roar attitude that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. But there’s no way I’m leaving you out here to fend for yourself. Even if you can work and vote. Oh, and think. Let’s not forget you girls can think.”
Throwing him a heated glare, I find my annoyance with him ratchets even higher when the smile he returns is too gorgeous for words. I hate how good-looking this man is. It has to be illegal.
Turning my back on him, I search through the trunk, but for the life of me can’t figure out how to unlatch the floor of it to release the spare beneath. I take a second to scan the car. The latch couldn’t possibly be underneath the carriage, like a pickup truck. The car is way too low to the ground. But maybe.
I tug a soft pashmina from my bag, keeping the folds intact. It’s the best I can do to protect my bare knees from the asphalt while I look underneath the car. And as long as I don’t shift the soft cashmere on the pavement, it should survive the abuse.
“I can’t let you do that,” he says insistently.
I give him the smallest of grins. “You’re not the boss of me.”
When he hops off the hood of his car and takes two long strides toward me, my breath hitches from his closeness. His heat.
“Look, somehow we got off on the wrong foot, and I’m in the sexist zone.”
I step through my rationale. “Let’s see. You leered at my body and said I couldn’t change a tire.”
“Correction,” he says, barely holding in a chuckle. “I leered at your body and said you couldn’t change this tire.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“No, I said this tire. You can’t change this tire. And if you don’t want me to leer,” he drops his gaze, gesturing at my outfit, “maybe go for a little more demure and a little less evil temptress. I am human, after all.”
Pouting, I cross my arms, realizing too late I should have led with a squint.
“And that suggestive mouth isn’t helping.”
I scoff. “This isn’t seduction. I’m just trying to save my blazer from the irreparable harm of axle grease.”
“Oh.” He steps back to his car and returns with a lightweight windbreaker. “Here.”
He holds up the oversized jacket, letting me slip my arms in. If the massive sleeves dripping off me weren’t making me feel like a three-year-old, this guy zipping me up does.
“There,” he says, pleased and smiling down with golden flecks glinting in his eyes.
The sweetness almost makes me want to kiss him. But I don’t.
“Thanks,” I say, battling my rising heat with the distraction of tugging up the sleeves.
“Let me.” His big hands roll the sleeves gently up one arm, and then the other. “Better?”
“Better,” I say softly, smiling appreciatively as I admire his work, feeling the softness of the large sleeves as they slide back down. My smile widens when I see he’s zipped me up clear to my neck.
“Okay. Back to what I was saying,” he says. “I’m not being sexist when I say I know, without a doubt, you can’t change this tire.”
I cross my arms, amused at both his knowing tone and the way the too-long sleeves flop around. Cocking my head, I wait for him to explain.
“You’re driving a McLaren Spider.”
“I know that.”
“McLaren Spiders are ultra-compact and built for speed.”
“I know that too. But I’ve changed tires on sportsc—”
He presses a finger to my lips, lifting a knowing brow and scorching me with his body. “And they don’t have a spare.”
When he releases my mouth, I meekly say, “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Which leaves you with two options, temptress. Well, three. First, you can call a tow truck and pray to God Almighty that it doesn’t ding and scratch the crap out of your precious car.”
“Hmm. What’s option number two?”
“You could let me take you wherever you’re going and learn all about you, including everything from childhood aspirations to favorite foods. But I can’t let you in my car unless I know your full name and phone number. As a safety precaution, of course. And don’t try pulling a fast one. Whatever name you give me needs to be backed up by ID.”
“Really?”
“Better safe than sorry.” His innocent shrug is met with my devilishly coy grin.
“And three?”
With a sigh, he again heads back to his car, popping the trunk before reaching in and then softly slamming it shut. He waves a tall can at me. “Instant flat fixer. Terrible stuff. I don’t recommend it, but this and a few plugs will get you where you’re going, assuming you’re not crossing several states to flee the law or anything. But the tire will be forever lost if we use this stuff on it.”
I look at the car, then back at the gorgeous knight in shining armor so intent on helping me, and struggle over my decision.
“What do you say, emptress? How about you let me give you a lift?”