Page 12 of Love is Fake

“This is your ride.” He puts his hands in his pockets, motioning with his head towards the monster Chevy off to one side. It’s so shiny I can see my reflection in it and I’m almost nervous to touch it. It’s definitely worth more than I make in a year. Hell, make that 5 years. The fact that I’m expected to drive this thing, given how my last ride ended up…

“It’s just a car, Isabella,” Lennox says softly, and I realize I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud. I wince inwardly, but I don’t comment. This time, I make sure my lips are firmly sealed so none of my deepest thoughts come spilling out of my mouth without my say-so. Clearly, I can’t be trusted not to make a complete fool of myself in front of this man.

I go to get in the waiting truck, except it’s much easier said than done when you happen to be vertically challenged.

“No nerf bars,” I mutter to myself. Without a step I’m going to have to jump up into the seat like a little kid.

Lennox is right by my side, looking at me curiously as I look warily at the distance between the floor and the driver’s seat. “You know about cars?”

I shrug. “My dad’s kind of a gear-head.” I don’t elaborate, not wanting to get into it and risk Lennox making the connection between my dad’s auto shop and me.

“Hold on.”

I can’t stop myself from letting out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a squeak of surprise as strong hands grab mywaist and I’m forcibly lifted into the truck as if I don’t weigh anything at all.

Lennox waits a beat before letting go of me and stepping away from the truck, closing the door.

“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath, busying myself looking at the interior of the truck so I don’t have to meet his eyes.

Get a grip, Izzy, all he did was give you a leg-up. But it doesn’t stop me from shivering at the tingle I felt as my top rode up just enough for his hand to graze the bare skin at my waist.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I mumble unnecessarily and then realize that I’ve already frickin’ told him that.

I risk a glance at Lennox to find his dark eyes lit up with amusement. He’s enjoying my discomfort way too much. So, I go back to inspecting the interior of the car, not trusting myself to look directly at him. Besides, this car is way nicer than any others I’ve been in and I’m both excited to get to drive it and nervous as all hell.

“Isabella?” I lift my head, ignoring how good my name sounds when he says it. Lennox’s arms are leaning on the open window, drawing attention to his not unimpressive biceps.

“Try not to crash my truck.”

This time I don’t resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Funny.”

“I look forward to seeing what you have in store for me tomorrow.”

Dammit, how does he make even that straightforward phrase sound sensual?

He taps the hood of the car, pushing away as I start the engine.

I send him a saccharine smile. “You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Gray.”

I wave innocently as I drive away, hazarding a look in my rear-view mirror to see he’s still standing in the driveway, watching. I figure he’s probably half-expecting me to crashbefore I’ve even left the property. I’m not going to satisfy his assumption by doing just that.

My cell rings as I head out of Lennox’s compound and my shoulders relax a touch as I answer the call, hearing the voice of my favorite person in the whole world.

“Izzy Bizzy.” I smile at the endearment he’s been using since I was in diapers.

“Hi daddy,” I sigh, settling back into the driver’s seat.

“How’s my girl?” His voice might sound gruff to someone who doesn’t know him, years of cigarettes have given him a permanent smoker’s throatiness. It had taken me emotionally blackmailing him for him to finally give up a couple of years ago and I didn’t even feel a little bit bad about it.

“I’m good.” The lie slips out easily. I never burden my dad with my problems – he’s had a lifetime of them to deal with all on his own.

“You sure? You sound a little…off.”

Aside from making the worst possible impression on the highest of high profile clients, long-buried mortifying memories of my teenager years coming back to haunt me and wondering how the hell I’m going to do my job when the athlete I’m working with thinks I’m a basket-case, aside from all that, everything’s totally fine.

Of course, I don’t tell him all that. “I’m just tired, it’s been a busy few days,” I deflect.

He makes a disbelieving sound, telling me I’m not fooling anyone. But he doesn’t push. It’s one of the things I love about him; he lets you come to things in your own time. “How’s work?”

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