Page 15 of The Billionaire's Ride

He seems to hold back a laugh and arches his brow instead. Why is he so damn cute? “I suppose there’s some truth to that.” He runs a finger over his chin, averting his gaze like he’s thinking. “I’ll tell you what, from now on, I won’t leave you hanging if you don’t.”

I drop my jaw and glare. “So you were playing games?” I knew it! Having a crush on a man is one thing, but crushing on a player . . . that’s a whole different ball game.

Drew steps closer. “Games are for children. Yesterday was business.”

I tilt my chin up, holding his sensual gaze. “And I suppose today is business too?” My tone is flirty. Unintentionally flirty. But I can’t help it.

He takes another step, and my pulse begins to race. “Just until I get all the shots I need.” Any closer and he’ll crash into me. And I want him to.

“Then what?”

He drops his eyes, and I feel his fingers graze my hand. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, he pulls my phone away. “Then, I’ll take you to get your phone repaired.”

His face relaxes into a casual expression and the debonair act is over. I almost completely forget about my phone and the fact that we’re standing in the middle of my store.

“Really?” I ask, looking at the hopeless, broken screen he’s holding up. “Today?”

“Sure, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I guess we could do that,” I say, trying to sound cool as a cucumber. Okay, the fact that I’m even thinking that phrase tells me I’m not cool at all. I clear my throat and straighten my spine before folding my arms over my chest. “I just need to finish my interview.”

“Great. I’ll be ready when you are.”

“Perfect.” I sound anything but perfect. Nothing about the way I feel around him is perfect. Except that it feels really good. And that’s what makes me nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t let him take me to get my phone fixed. Then again, it’s an errand, not a date.

He huffs a small laugh and walks back to the front of the store. Did I say something funny?

I glance around the boutique. Every woman in here, working or shopping, has her focus on Drew while he focuses the lens onhis camera. I can sense the pheromones circling the air. But I can’t blame them. I want to watch him too, but Danika’s waiting.

So I return to the bench and request we finish the interview in the back office where it’s quiet. Translation: Drew-free. But I’m hyperaware of him wandering around my boutique. It’s not only mental, it’s visceral. And now it’s distracting. I’ve forgotten how nagging crushes are, how they pull at your attention every free moment.

Soon, the interview comes to a close, and I thank Danika for coming by. She leaves me with a pair of air kisses and heads out. I hear Drew down the hall asking Layla where he can find me. Are we about to run into each other on purpose? I grab my bag, take a breath, and meet him.

“I was just coming to get you,” he says, and I feel my whole body trembling. He’s so damn hot he makes me nervous.

“Shall we go,” I reply, gesturing at the front door.

Shall? I never sayshallunless I’m speaking with a very lame Elizabethan accent.

He takes the lead, and I follow him through the store. Garret and Layla wave goodbye as a few of the customers shoot me some not-so-nice looks. Perhaps their jealousy will inspire them to spend more. I know I would if I were in their shoes.

I hope they don’t decide against buying because the designer is leaving with the hottest guy to ever step foot in the store. Which is a true statement. Once, a TV heartthrob took his girlfriend on a shopping spree in my boutique. That was very good for business. But that TV star has nothing on Drew.

“This is our ride.” I point to the black town car as it pulls up to the curb, the one I called about twenty minutes ago.

Drew dismisses it with a look. “I have another mode of transportation,” he says, walking up to the car.

Another mode of transportation?

Garret said Drew’s loaded. Maybe he has a personal chauffeur with a much nicer car. Or a Bugatti. Or a private jet. The driver rolls down the tinted window, and Drew leans in. Then I see the motorcycle helmet hanging on his backpack. He pulls a stack of cash from his jacket pocket and hands the driver what looks like the equivalent of a twenty. “Apologies for your trouble,” he says. The guy takes the money, dips his hat, and drives off.

My gut twists tighter than a motorcycle around a telephone pole, which is exactly what I’m afraid of.

Drew turns to me. “I’d like to take you for a real ride. Ever been on a motorbike?”

I swallow hard at his words, a mix of excitement and apprehension. “No,” I say, thinking it will be safer to walk away. I’m not cruising around the city in a vehicle with no doors. Especially in this minidress.

“A virgin, are you?” He arches his dark eyebrow, and I feel that twist in my gut unravel. “There’s a first time for everything.” He waves me over, and I follow him to a vintage motorcycle parked along the curb. This guy really is a James Dean wannabe.

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