Page 40 of The Love Playbook

“I’m going to my mother’s, so no.”

He nods. “Then I have no problem staying in the car.”

I eye him like I don’t believe him. I have no idea what kind of state my mother will be in when I get there, and the last thing I need is him getting an up close and personal glimpse of her dysfunction. But it’s not like I have much of a choice.

“Okay, then, Collins. I’ll give you the honor of driving me.” I point and add, “Just try not to annoy me.”

Five minutes later, I’m sitting beside Chris, breathing in the crisp clean scent of him while we hit the road, headed toward my mother’s house. “This is your car?” I say, glancing around me in disbelief.

A smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Not what you expected?”

I take in the sleek turquoise paint and the smooth black leather interior with classic lines. “Not exactly. I would never have taken you for a vintage car guy.”

Chris snorts. “And what exactly is a ‘vintage car guy’?”

“I don’t know. Someone interesting, sophisticated . . .”Hot.

I eye him for a second longer as he chuckles and fight the shiver of desire rolling up my spine. The second we slipped inside his car, he abandoned his jacket, then pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms with a smattering of golden hair that shouldn’t be as hot as they are.

His large hand rests on the gearshift, relaxed and in contrast to the way my entire body is tensed like a spring, and every time he shifts gears, the muscles in his forearm flex.

It’s fucking hot, which is more than a little disconcerting because this is Chris we’re talking about here. The man with the annoying tenacity of a gnat.

“I’ve never ridden with anyone who drives a stick shift,” I say as if voicing some of what I’m thinking might rid me of these toxic thoughts.

“No?” He glances over at me, then back to the road. “Manual transmissions are far superior. Everything is automatic now, and it’s boring.”

“It’s also easier,” I point out. “Who wants to think that much or work that hard while they’re driving?”

“You get used to it, and then it’sautomatic.” He grins at his own joke while I scowl.

Look at him being all cute and funny.

I grunt in response, forcing my gaze away from his forearm porn. “What kind of car is it, anyway?”

“First of all, never call her anit.”

I snicker as I glance back at him. “It’s a her?”

“Of course it’s a her. Just look at her.”

“Oh, I’m looking,” I say, taking another sip of my quickly cooling tea.

“Not only is she gorgeous, but you should hear the way she purrs underneath the hood when I work on her.”

I choke, sputtering and hacking so I don’t aspirate when Chris removes his hand from the gearshift to slap my back. “You alright there?”

“I’m good.Allgood.”

Other than the mental image those words just conjured.

“So, what kind of car is she?” I ask, putting the emphasis onshe.

“A 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 429.”

“That’s very specific. I’m not much of a car person, so that means nothing to me, but she is beautiful,” I admit begrudgingly. “Sounds expensive.”

I may not know a lot about Chris and his family but growing up with no father and a single mom to six kids, I can’t imagine they had a wealth of money sitting around, even if his mom did have a stable job.

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