Page 32 of Sassy Love
“Remember to turn off the stove at the wall, okay? Double-check the front door every night, do not rely on the automated locking system. Check it.”
She swats my arm, and her brows drop into a rare frown. “Would you get out of here, already? My life is not that eventful. Book club is the most exciting thing I’ll be doing while you’re gone, and it’s only two blocks away.”
That makes me freeze, and she deflates. “Please, sweetheart, do something for you. Just this once.”
I sigh and fold her in a bear hug. With my heels on, I tower over her. She slides an awkward arm upward and pats my cheek.
I’m suffocating her.
Her signal letting me know I’m squishing her. I have a habit of doing that.
“If I don’t get a reply to my morning text every single morning, there will be hell to pay, Millicent DeLuca.”
“Good lord, not the full name, Mom.” She winks at me. The little shit.
I peck her cheek. “Love you. Enjoy your week of solace.”
“You too,” she says with absolute cheek.
I press the center button on the handle of my suitcase and shoulder my handbag as I turn for the door. A hand swats my ass, and I shoot Mills a glare over my shoulder. “Just as well I love you.”
She cackles. “Just getting my turn in before the cowboy does.”
I roll my eyes at her, and she pulls a crazy face. Scrunching my face up in a goodbye smile, I slip through the door and pad the ten steps to the elevator. In the garage, I hit the keypad on my car key, and the BMW’s lights flash with a high-pitched chirp. I haul my bag into the trunk and slam it shut.
Sinking into the driver’s seat, I fire her up. The low rumble of my car always sends lightning through my veins. Something my mother never understood. “Boys and men like cars, not women,” she would say any time I showed interest in a car. To my credit, they were always luxury cars.
I pull out onto the street and slip between traffic, flying toward the drop pin Rawlins sent me before I walked out the door.
“Siri, take me to the latest drop pin.”
“Taking you to East 73rdStreet.”
Lord above, slumming it, Rawlins.
When I pull up out front of a five-story attached brownstone, I honk the horn as I pull up level with the man himself and his luggage. He stands in Levi’s and a polo shirt with aviators and his usual messy brown hair parted to one side. A small piece of luggage sits at his feet.
He slides the aviators down his face and frowns.
Seriously?
I hit the trunk button and climb from the car. “If you’re waiting for a limo, you’ll be here a while.”
He slides the glasses up onto his head and smiles. “Mornin’ to you, too.”
The fucking nerve on this guy. I swear, he only uses that damn drawl when he thinks it’s going to piss me off.
“Whatever. Get your shit in the trunk; this doesn’t have to take all day.”
I sit back in the driver’s seat and check my phone. Nothing from Mills yet.
Of course there isn’t.
The car dips with his weight as he fills out the passenger seat, surprising me. It’s been ages since I’ve had a guy in my car, and none have affected the suspension.
Rawlins is lean and fit... and looking oversized in the passenger’s seat.
His aftershave fills the small space. My heart races, sending short, useless breaths to expand my lungs.
