Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
T hey were already halfway across the Harbor City Bridge, and Frank hadn't answered her question. In fact, he hadn't uttered a single word, but she wasn't about to lose this little battle of wills by talking first.
Frank was never this quiet. Not when he played poker. Not when they'd danced at Marinos. Definitely not when they were having sex in the bar supply closet. The man had whispered things in her ear that she hadn't even known were possible. Then he'd followed through and delivered on every single one of them.
Her gaze caught on his hands—one on the steering wheel and the other resting on the top of the gear shift. He had great hands. They were big, and strong, and capable. He had a few scrapes here and there on the knuckles—no doubt from building decks to earn a little extra money when he wasn't on shift—that hadn’t been there in November. And while she couldn't see them, she could still feel the good rough rub of his callused thumbs against her inner thighs as he ever so slowly inched his hands higher until she was all but begging for him to hurry up before she lost it.
She'd tried to recreate that feeling at home, without any luck. No fingers, brush handle, or shower head had the same effect as Frank Hartigan and his fabulous fucking hands.
She shifted in her seat and squeezed her thighs together in hopes of relieving some of the pressure building between them that had nothing to do with the fact that it was really hot in here all of a sudden. Watching the play of the muscles in his forearm as he shifted gears in response to the ebbs and flows of traffic took the heat up another few degrees.
Damn it. This isn't fair.
She jerked open her purse and pulled out her emergency banana clip. With about twelve kinds of frustration making her movements jerky, she unclasped the plastic clip with more force than necessary and opened it wide enough to go around her thick, wavy hair that had at least half a bottle of AquaNet in it. Then, she tilted her head back, did the little head wave thing that seemed to work, got the frizz-prone strands in line, and snapped the clip closed.
It wasn't fair. Why did it have to be Frank Hartigan that did this to her?
He wasn't a guy anyone could fall for if they wanted to keep their heart in one piece—which she most definitely did.
Of course, not all the women of Waterbury shared that sentiment. The ones who didn't brought ziti and homemade cookies to the firehouse for him. They showed up at Marinos and danced so close to the table where he usually sat with his friends that one woman even "accidentally" fell into his lap. They flirted, and sweet-talked, and laughed at his jokes to gain—or regain—his attention. To each their own right? But for her, Frank was the human equivalent of a haunted house built on a graveyard and inhabited by a plucky family who didn't think the fact that the TV came on by itself was something to worry about.
Plain and simple: He was not for her.
And that was what made the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about him all the more annoying.
Or dreaming about him.
Or picturing him when she slipped her fingers between her legs and stroked her clit.
And now he was driving her car, messing up her settings for the driver's seat, and filling her nostrils with the unmistakable spicy-woody scent of his Drakkar Noir cologne, making it impossible for her to stop thinking about how good he'd smelled in the supply closet at Marinos.
Oh. My. God. Katie, you are in so much trouble.
Rolling down the window to let in some air before she spontaneously combusted, she kept her attention focused on the lights winking on in the high rises that dotted the city side of the Harbor. It took a second, but eventually, the breeze coming in off the water found its way through the window and to the back of her neck. It felt so good, she might as well be standing in her underwear in front of the giant box fan in her room.
A soft sign of absolute pleasure escaped before she could stifle it.
Maybe he didn't hear it.
She snuck a peek at him. There was no missing the shit-eating grin on his face.
Oh yeah, he for sure heard it.
Then the smug, lying jerk had the gall to wink at her. That's when her need to win the silent game lost out to her need to call him out on his bullshit.
"It's not your DeLorean," she said.
The tips of his ears turned almost as red as his hair. "Is that a question?"
"No." She did her best to glare at him, but it was hard when she was also doing her best not to find the response adorable.
It wasn't. It wasn't cute or sweet or endearing. She barely even noticed it. Just a minor blip on her radar.
Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that.
"Too bad," he said, with a bashful grin that showed off his dimples as he took the exit for the museum district. "I like your questions."
Katie rolled her eyes at the obvious fib. Except for her family—and even they had their limits—no one liked her questions, at least not after she'd asked the first twenty-five. Most folks thought she was weird because of them and found a way to avoid her in the future.
But not Frank.
From the first time she stopped by the firehouse to drop off her dad’s lunch, Frank had answered every one of her questions, and then he'd asked if she had any more. She did. She always did, and he never seemed to mind.
She didn't want to think about why that made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, so she shoved that thought away and asked, "What are we doing in Harbor City? And don't you dare try to sell me that bullshit of having to be here again. What's the truth?"
He shot her a grin that made her stomach do a loop-de-loop.
“Because you’re about to have the best night of your life.”