61. Mandy
MANDY
His thigh is solid muscle under my palm. I let my fingers drift higher. Not much. Just enough.
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Mandy.”
“You know what your problem is?” I ask conversationally.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
Fuck, I love him growly and grumpy. I slide my hand another inch up his thigh. “You hate not knowing how this ends.”
His jaw tightens even more.
Bingo.
“You can plan for Ashford. You can plan for his security, his men, every possible way this goes sideways.” I study his profile. “But you can’t plan me, and that is driving you fucking crazy.”
His gaze cuts briefly to mine. “You’re not a variable.”
I smile. “Sweetheart, I’m the whole fucking equation.”
His hand tightens on the wheel.
God, he makes this fun. I let my hand move higher. He’s already hard under his jeans.
“Mandy.” My name comes out rough this time. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” If his eyes weren’t on the road, I’d bat my eyelashes.
“You know exactly what.”
I do—that’s why I’m doing it. Because for the last hour, he’s been carrying Monday around like he can somehow muscle it into submission. Ashford. Clara. Me. Every possible outcome running through that terrifyingly efficient brain of his.
I can’t give him certainty, but I can give him something else to think about.
And maybe I can remind him that he doesn’t have to carry all of this alone.
I lean closer. Fuck, he smells good. My plan to distract him might backfire. “You know something else you can’t plan?”
His eyes stay stubbornly forward. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“The next fifteen minutes.”
His gaze snaps to mine.
I let what I plan to do to him fill my eyes. “Pull over.”
“No.”
I grin. He’s totally going to do it. “Hendricks.”
He shakes his head. “We’re fifteen minutes from the house.”
“That’s fourteen minutes too long.” I lean in, my mouth near his ear. “Pull. Over.”