Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
I twine my fingers in the telephone cord as Butch explains his passion for Barracudas, making the case for why they’re superior muscle cars. I’m stretched across my bed backwards with my hair splayed like a fan on the comforter and my legs crossed at the ankles up against the wall.
In this position, I feel like a teenager, more so because of the exuberant flutters dancing through my cells and the stupid smile on my face.
We’ve been on the phone thirty minutes. He called. Like he said he would. Didn’t even wait twenty-four hours.
It doesn’t seem like he wants the call to end, despite how much it’s costing him in toll charges…and that fuels the flutters even more.
“I’m officially jealous.” I sigh, defeated over never owning my dream car. “I drove a Beetle through college. My Dad thought it was economical. And he did pay for my gas. Still…”
“I’ll deny it in a court of law if you repeat this, but VWs are great cars,” he says.
“Hmm…not dealbreakers ?”
He chuckles. “Still a dealbreaker. ”
“Wow, guess I’m zero for two. Why are you still talking to me?”
“I want to see you again, Sundance.”
That sexy, smooth voice of his will be the death of me. And the sincere way he spoke those words has my stomach dipping. “I’d like that too.”
“Tomorrow? I could take you for a ride.”
I bark out a laugh.
He joins in. “I meant in my car.”
“Digging a deeper hole…”
“You have a filthy mind.”
Not usually, but you’re crossing every barrier I’ve fought to erect. “I’d love to go for a ride in your car.” And maybe take the other ride too. A full-body shiver courses through me, remembering Butch’s king-size everything .
“Pick you up at eleven?” Mr. Deep Voice snaps me back to the present. “We can snag lunch somewhere out and about?”
“It’s a date.”
The next morning, my intercom buzzes at five to eleven. His punctuality—eagerness?—pleases me.
“It’s your handsome driver,” Butch says, voice crackling through the system.
Cue idiotic smile. “Be down in a sec.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m coming to get you.”
“Even though we’re going to turn around and go right back downstairs?”
“Don’t question my chivalry, baby.”
Baby? Instant access. And don’t even get me started with the chivalry part.
At my door minutes later, the vision he presents damn near puts me on life support.
Hair the color of aged bourbon framing his face.
Get-lost-in-me eyes the shade of vibrant evergreens.
The sheer volume of him packaged in jeans, a well-fitting Henley, and a broken-in, brown leather jacket. Lord, have mercy.
His eyes sweep me, and judging by his hungry gaze, my effort’s paying off. My hair’s styled, make-up natural, and I’ve paired a cat-black sweater with fitted Levi’s and my favorite suede boots.
“You look gorgeous, Sundance.”
“You too, Lumberjack.”
“Come again?” he says, cracking a smile.
My hand swirls in the air, gesturing his way. “You know you’re like a hot, foresty lumberjack, right?”
His head cocks, and one of his hands scrapes the scruff of his jaw. “Yeah…no.” He looks almost embarrassed. “Ready to go?”
I nod and Butch takes my hand. My insides jolt at his touch, and that dormant heart of mine sparks to life.
We grin at each other in the elevator and out the lobby doors. Little palpitations skitter through me from our hands woven together, his nearness, his obvious desire. He likes me. Nothing is more ego-inflating than being wanted.
His Plymouth fastback comes into view, the chrome Barracuda emblem splashed along the rear.
Once I’m secure in the passenger-side bucket seat, I scan the all-black interior, dashboard features, custom steering wheel, and Hurst shifter.
The faint aroma of car cleaner mixes with Butch’s woodsy scent with maple notes. Eau de Lumberjack .
My driver straps himself in and cranks the ignition, and the rumble sparks my other dormant body organ to life. God, I’ve missed that sound, that vibration, sitting front and center in one of these heavily horse-powered machines.
It’s a little like taking a long, hot shower after a California drought, only tinged with a dash of bittersweet. Butch casts me another infectious grin, obliterating all thoughts.
He drives carefully through city streets, thrilling me when he revs the engine or screeches off the line with just enough torque to lightly fishtail.
Once we enter the highway, he opens her up.
I love going fast, and when the familiar rush hurtles through my cells, I whoop loudly.
A sidelong glance at the man expertly driving this machine shows a satisfied smile edging his lips.
I long to open the windows and let the wind kiss my face, but that’s not happening on this September morning. It may be sunny, but it’s cool outside with an even chillier breeze, and I’m grateful Butch turned on the heat.
After a stretch, he exits the highway, and I’m surprised how quickly we’re passing undeveloped spaces with farms, fields, or towering trees only twenty minutes from a major metropolis.
“You like ‘bacon roads,’ Sundance?”
“What are those?”
“I’ll show you, city girl,” he says with another big grin.
He hauls ass along a winding country road, and as we hit a section of rolling hills, my stomach swoops on the downstrokes. Bracing myself, I squeal and laugh with each undulation like a lunatic.
“Get it now?’ he shouts in between dips.
It’s like driving on cooked bacon, the crisped fat creating those staggered peaks and valleys. My smile doesn’t quit until we’re through miles of hilly roads.
He reaches a T and pauses at the stop sign with the idle purring. Damn, he’s a good driver.
“It’s like a rollercoaster,” I say, breathless.
He grins, eyes bright, and it’s a heady combination. He turns left, flying through the gears as we reach speeds I’m afraid to monitor. He eventually slows through a small town, pulling into a spot at a diner.
It’s the quintessential greasy spoon with a black-and-white checkered floor, red upholstered booths, and a counter lined with shiny metal stools. The type of place that serves breakfast all day and employs waitresses who call you “hon.”
We snag an available booth, order, and get busy doctoring our coffees.
“I know almost zero about you,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not a serial killer.”
“Whew, glad that’s cleared up. But can I really take your word for it?”
“I mean…we’ve got to assume lying is a prerequisite for that kind of proclivity.”
“At the very least.”
He blows on his coffee, those tempting lips distracting me, and takes a sip. “Ask away.”
My hands circle the mug as I wait for the liquid to cool. “Favorite color?”
“You’re starting with the hard stuff?” he teases.
“Just answer the question, smartass.”
He studies me, letting his eyes rove over my face. “Right now, it’s yellow. You?”
“Currently, I rather favor…” I prop my elbow on the table, lean my chin on my hand and meet his gaze straight on. “Green.” And I’m not lying. Butch’s eyes are captivating.
That elicits another of his slow, gorgeous smiles.
“How old are you?” I’m dying to know.
“Thirty.”
“Hmm…an older man.” My brow arches. “I just turned twenty-four.”
“I’m not exactly robbing the cradle.” Butch shifts in his seat, hanging one arm over the back of the booth.
“When’s your birthday?”
He casually lifts the cup to his lips, and I fixate on his throat working when he takes another sip. “January eighth.”
I can’t help my excited inhale. “That makes you a Capricorn. I’m a Virgo…our star signs are mega compatible.”
He gives me a dubious look before his expression turns amused. “Let me guess. You read the Bedside Astrologer every year.”
My mouth drops. “You read Cosmo ?”
He offers a half shrug. “A guy’s got to learn about the G-spot somewhere.”
Our food arrives, interrupting us. I’ve got to admit, he’s a smart man; Cosmo is full of sex tips. That he cares enough to research shows me his ego is right-sized. And there’s no question he knows his way around the female parts…hell, I don’t even understand the elusive spot he just referenced.
We’re quiet as we dig in: me to French toast and sausage links, and him to a cheeseburger and fries. I steal a few of his fries and he snags a sausage in unspoken agreement, as if we’ve been eating together for years.
Outside, after our meal, he presses me against the car. He cradles my neck and brings me closer, his lips claiming mine, revving my internal motor as he kisses me senseless. Heat shoots through me like a wildfire and a whimper slips out.
“I want to lick every drop of syrup from this mouth,” he murmurs.
Yes, please.
Back on the road, Butch pushes in a tape and unfamiliar music filters through the speakers.
“Who is this?”
“The Marshall Tucker Band.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
“Have you been living in a cave?” he says, tone incredulous. “ Ohhh …Californian. Maybe you ate too much tofu and alfalfa sprouts that it stunted your growth?”
“Maybe you ate so much fried okra and biscuits it affected your musical tastes?”
He chuckles and combs his fingers through his thick locks, leaving it tousled, and my gaze snags on it. “Marshall Tucker is the quintessential Southern rock band. Helped establish the entire genre. They’re brilliant musicians. ”
I shrug. “Never heard of Southern rock either, but this doesn’t sound very rock and roll.”
“Do tell who you consider a proper rock band.” He scrubs his jaw, a smile forming. “Let me hazard a guess. You’re into the hair bands .”
I smack him playfully on the arm. “I’m a huge Van Halen girl. Love U2, the Stones, AC/DC, Zeppelin, The Who, Pat Travers, Ozzy…a vast assortment.” I don’t mention Motley Crüe in case he considers them hair metal.
He scoffs. “You have so much to learn, young’un.”
I roll my eyes. “Suppose you’ll have to teach me your ways, oh wise one .” My words drip with sarcasm.
He chuckles. “Or just spank your pretty, bratty ass.”
My breath catches at the instant visual. Me over his lap, behind bared, his big hand slapping my cheeks. It shouldn’t sound so alluring…but does. “ Yes, please ,” I murmur.
Butch lets out a long, growly groan that shoots right to the spot already tingling from the image in my mind. “You’re killing me, Sundance.”
With a predatory gaze, he floors it. He’s not the only one in a hurry to get back to my place.