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CHAPTER 7
SETH
I’m three hours late for work, and not a single one of these guys has the balls to call me out on it.
Usually, I’m in before sunrise, mainlining espresso, barking orders, and running the whole damn place while the rest of the city’s still drooling into their pillows. Today? I stroll in at nine-thirty-two, sunglasses on, shirt half-untucked, and this ridiculous, can’t-wipe-it-off grin spread across my face. I know they all see it. Even Tyler, who can barely remember his own name before noon, glances up from where he’s hunched over the Ferrari’s fender. His eyebrows shoot up so high I half expect them to launch right off his face.
“Rough night, boss?” Jim O’Connor calls from under the hood of the Ferrari, his voice full of gravel and way too much amusement. He doesn’t even bother pretending to work. The rest of the crew exchange looks, grins threatening to split their faces. I must look like I just crawled out of a damn good, possibly illegal, time.
“Best night of my goddamn life,” I shoot back, which only makes them more convinced. Nobody says a word about my being three hours late, but the whole shop vibrates with tension—I can feel it in my teeth.
I slide through the locker room, rinse off the top layer of sweat, and dig out the least-wrinkled shirt I keep in my office closet for emergencies and hangovers. It smells like stale starch, but I pull it on anyway.
As I settle behind my desk, the noises from below filter up. I hear the pneumatic whine of the lift, the clank of a dropped ratchet, and Tyler’s raw-throated cursing as he fights with a seized bolt.
Forty-two unread emails and twelve urgent voicemails greet me. Payroll’s due by noon, and I haven’t even opened the goddamn spreadsheet yet. I drag my laptop over, tap the touchpad, and immediately regret it.
The glow from the screen isn’t as blinding as the mental image of Frankie replaying in my head. I try to focus on the numbers, but her laugh keeps popping up like a damn malware virus.
My gaze drifts to the glass wall. Every so often, one of the crew glances up at me—a quick check, then back to work. They’re dying to know what in the hell kept me off schedule for the first time ever. I can read the gossip in the tilt of their heads, the sideways snickers. If I were them, I’d be doing the same thing.
I blast through two hours of paperwork, half the time rage-typing at the mess the part supplier left in my accounts. Around eleven-thirty, I finally get payroll signed and sent. I let myself lean back, close my eyes, and think about nothing except how good it would feel to have Frankie in this office, bent over the desk, maybe in that ridiculous “BAD DECISIONS CLUB” t-shirt she wore yesterday.
The image is so sharp it nearly knocks the wind out of me. Jesus Christ, I’m becoming one of those guys. Smitten, pussy-whipped, and couldn’t be happier.
I hear the buzzer over the front door and look up, expecting the UPS guy or maybe one of the mechanics with a problem. It’s neither.
She’s here, and fuck, she’s gorgeous. Today she’s got on a shirt that says “I LIKE MY COFFEE BLACK AND MY KARMA INSTANT” in big block letters, knotted at her waist so it shows just the tiniest sliver of her stomach. Her denim skirt hugs her body so tightly it leaves nothing to the imagination when it comes to the curve of her hips, the length of her thighs, or her sweet, round ass. Her hair’s twisted up in a messy knot, glasses perched on her nose, and she’s squinting at me with a look that says she’s already in charge—I just haven’t figured it out yet.
Oh, hell. I’m in so much trouble here, and I don’t even care. “Every single eye in the place is about to be on us,” I mutter to myself as I head straight for my girl. She’s glancing around like she owns the place. And she will, once I put my ring on her finger.
Ignoring my nosy employees, I pull her into my arms. “Morning, boss,” she purrs, her voice thick with hunger. It goes straight to my dick, making me hard so fast it’s almost painful.
“Morning, Sassy Pants,” I growl, my voice rough and hungry. I don’t care who’s watching. I grab her by the waist, yanking her into me so hard our bodies collide with a smack that echoes through the shop. She gasps, and I swallow the sound, my mouth crashing over hers like I’ve been starved for her.
Her lips part instantly, no hesitation, no games. My tongue pushes into her mouth, claiming her with a desperation I can’t hide. She tastes like cherry ChapStick and coffee, and I can’t get enough. I deepen the kiss, my hands sliding down to grip her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her moan.
The shop goes dead silent, but I don’t give a damn. All I care about is the way she fits against me, the way her nails dig into my shoulders, like she wants to carve her name into my skin. Her hips grind against me, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes, the wetness she’s trying to hide.
“Jesus Christ, I need a cigarette,” someone mutters, but the sound is distant, barely there. All my focus is on the way her taste lingers on my tongue, the intoxicating scent of her shampoo mixed with coffee, and the way her breath hitches when I nip at her lower lip, just enough to make her whimper.
Frankie pulls back, gasping for air, her chest heaving like she just ran a marathon. Her lips are swollen, the perfect cherry-red smeared, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown with lust, and I know she’s picturing me bending her over the nearest surface and fucking her until she screams.
“Get a room, you two!” Jim yells, snapping the spell. Asshole.
Frankie ignores him, smoothing her shirt and reaching up to fix my collar, which she apparently doesn’t like. She leans in, close enough for only me to hear. “How’s your day going?”
“Better now that you’re here,” I mutter, fighting the urge to kiss her again.
She pivots and gives the crew a wave like she’s running for mayor. “Hey, boys. Don’t let me distract you from your work.” She winks at Tyler, who looks like he might faint.
Tyler mumbles something about “checking the, uh, catalytic converter” and bolts. Jim just grins, shakes his head, and goes back to pretending he’s not loving every second of this.
I pull Frankie close again, unable to resist. She smells like sunshine and trouble, and I want to drag her into my office, close the door, and see if I can make her scream my name loud enough to shatter the double-pane glass.
Instead, I settle for holding her there, in front of everyone, daring anyone to have a problem with it.
Nobody does.
