Oh, that’s right. His wife’s about to pop their second baby out any day now, and I gave him a paid week off. Pregnant women apparently become needier and/or crazier around this time, according to Justin, who has a kid and should know. Plus Miguel is a great guy, and he deserves time off.
“Okay. Thanks for the reminder.”
I turn and head to the garage, Evie following closely, her heels clacking quietly. As soon as I open the door, the lights come on. I step inside and peruse my collection. It’s hard to decide what to drive out of the ten cars I have. I steal a glance at Evie. Instead of admiring the various examples of world-class mechanical engineering, she’s staring at something on her tablet.
Well then. I choose the Bugatti. This gleaming black-and-red babe is a beaut. Very impressive, too. It better be, for a cool nineteen million. I’ve only taken it out for a spin twice, and not with anybody else. Evie should be flattered.
I open the door for her. “Get in, Ms. Parker.”
She blinks as though startled. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling, but I’m afraid I spaced out a bit.”
“You did?” This is very unusual.
Red stains her cheeks. It’s really cute. “Yeah, I brought my car here.”
Right, because Miguel didn’t drive her. But she followed me into the garage because our routine is sharing a ride to the office. So. Disrupted morning routines can fluster even the unflappable Ms. Parker, huh?
And this explains why she didn’t care what car I’m taking, because she thought she wasn’t going to be in it. Well, she’s about to be surprised. “Get in anyway. I’ll have that taken care of.”
She considers for a second, then nods. “All right. Thank you.”
I smile with satisfaction. Who can resist a ride in this stunning marvel of European manufacturing? No one, that’s who. The Bugatti was an inspired pick.
She moves past me and slides in. I inhale the lingering scent of her citrus shampoo and lavender lotion, then walk around, climb in behind the wheel and start the car. The engine roars impressively. I steal another glance, but she’s tapping on her tablet, her eyes glued to the screen. Meanwhile, all I can smell is her in the car. The pulse in her neck is fluttering—and maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I can feel it more viscerally than the vibration of the engine, as though her throat’s pressed against mine.
I shift, wondering why my pants feel so tight. Maybe I’ve been squatting too much.
We hit the road. It’s not as satisfying in the morning because of traffic. But still, the Bugatti’s damn nice, although from Evie’s lack of reaction, we could be in one of those Ubers that Court likes so much. Just what the hell is on that tablet? The winning number to the next Powerball jackpot? We’re in a damn Bugatti, not the boring Bentley that Miguel brings to pick us up in the morning. She should look up. Maybe check me out discreetly.
“So how was your date last night?” I ask casually, although I’m certain it sucked, based on the fact that she looks so fresh. No signs of fatigue or tiredness, which wouldn’t be the case if I had a date with her. We would positively wreck the bed. And the kitchen. And the bathroo—
“It was all right.” She’s still tapping away. “The food was nice, and it ended on an interesting note.”
Interesting good or interesting bad? Hard to tell from her neutral tone. And with a woman, it could mean anything. “Planning a second date on your tablet there?”
She gives me a frown like I asked her if she’s on her period. “No. I’m going over your agenda for the week and making some adjustments. I also told Elizabeth you’d be more than happy to be auctioned off to raise some money for her new project.”
“Okay.” Good. If she’s not planning a second date, the dude was probably lame. And I do want to help Elizabeth out. She’s a good friend and very big on helping people less fortunate than her, which means practically everyone on the planet. And this project to financially support families of children going through chemo is a big deal and something I believe in.
“Also there’s an email from the Ethel Sterling Children’s Memorial Hospital. They want to know if you can fund-raise for the preventative medicine department’s latest initiative.”
“Again? How did they spend the money we raised last time?” I ask.
There was a problem with some creative accounting at the hospital. My great-uncle Barron went apoplectic and told me to fix it. So I did. Five people were terminated and charged with embezzlement. And since then I’ve had everything audited bimonthly. The hospital bears Barron’s late wife’s name. No scandal there is too small to overlook, and nobody—absolutely nobody—steals from the children the hospital was built to serve and gets away with it. If Barron had had it his way, those five would’ve been drawn and quartered in a public square.
“Productively,” Evie says after a moment. “Your auditors confirmed the numbers submitted by the committee.”
“Okay. Then I guess we can give them some more.”
On the horiz
on, I see the familiar six-story building—the Sterling Medical Center. It was also built and is funded by my family’s foundation. We’re big believers in accessible health care, and it’s fucked up that in our country, one minor illness can toss a middle-class family into a pit of financial hell.
“You know that it doesn’t help to do announced inspection visits if you’re trying to find dirt, right?” Evie says as I park.
I nod.
“So why do you have one scheduled for next month?”