Chapter 8
Ben leans back, one hand steering, the other scrolling the radio presets like he's searching for some particular mood.
His silver watch flashes in my face under the harsh midday heat, but it's his fingers that hold me hostage.
Long. Moisturized. Obscenely elegant.
His patients are lucky—those are the kind of hands you'd want on your body, even when it hurts. Even if it hurts. Ehm.
And I guess I'm staring, because he glances over, one brow arched in a silent question.
I snap my head the other way, run a finger over the polished doorframe and pretend I'm fascinated by it. Like that doesn't give me away.
"So," I say, voice too bright. "How much do doctors make?"
Ben shifts gears and takes over two cars ahead. "Not enough to afford this beauty."
"I can believe that, but still, how much?"
He quirks a bemused smirk my way.
"What?" I demand. "You wanted us to be friends again. That's what friends do. Ask nosy questions. And you were always frugal."
"Frugal? Not at all," he retorts smoothly, smiling. "Strategic. Runs through generations. I'm sure my kids will inherit it too."
Kids. That word lands in the car and stops everything, including my breathing.
I almost ask—do you want them? With her? How you once, sort of, maybe, wanted them with me? Mad as if was since we never even slept together.
But it's a ridiculous thought because he's married and I'm sure he'll want them at some point, so I suck in air and don't go there. Not under this perfectly blue sky.
He squints at me, reading the storm behind my eyes, and says, "You think too much."
I swallow the eye roll with a sigh and pivot. "It's a rare Maserati, so I don't expect it to cost anything less than half a mil. At least tell me how you got it?"
"Investments," he says, deliberately vague.
"Investments?" I give him an unimpressed look. Jab his shoulder. "You sound like someone who hides cash in floorboards."
He just shrugs his lips, humming along to the summer banger.
"Seriously?" I press. "You're not going to tell me how you became a multi-millionaire?"
His grin is infuriating. "Don't think so. Like I said, you think too much. Enjoy the ride and smile. The day's beautiful."
I narrow my eyes. I hate when he does that—leaves me dangling like bait on a hook.
My brain starts clawing through every clue from the past, anything he told me, until it lands on one particular memory.
"Wait. Don't tell me." I turn to him slowly, eyes wide, like I've uncovered his darkest secret, and he makes a face, already expecting something absurd. "Did you become a crypto bro?"
He snorts amusedly, fingers drumming the wheel. "Funny, but no. Not a crypto bro. Not a mobster. Just learned how to turn a few lucky bets into advantages."
"Learned about lucky bets?" I pull a face. "That's the most Ben Bellini thing I've ever heard. You always knew how to bend the odds."
He shoots me a smirk. "What can I say? The universe likes me."
Who doesn't...
"And I don't have a problem waiting for what I want," he adds.
Okay, either I'm crazy, or he's flirting. I'm not sure, though, since it's not that long ago he told me his wife would love to decorate their house the same way.
Ben stomps the gas and the engine growls straight into my spine as we shoot forward.
I dig my fingers into the seat. "You drive like the road's built for you."
"You scared?" he says and his gaze cuts to me like we're not hurtling into the curve at ninety.
"Hey!" I grab his chin, shove it forward. "Eyes on the road, Mister Furious. Is this why you brought me? To finally kill me?"
"I'd revive you anyway." Said fast, like it's obvious. "Though you'd probably complain about how I did it."
"Valid concern. Mouth-to-mouth from you? I'd rather haunt you." I say, even though my brain stutters because I'm not crazy—Ben's definitely flirting with me.
And I mean what? What?!
He snorts a doubtful laugh. "Weren't you my blood type?"
"You mean Reckless Positive?" I raise both brows. "I am, around you. Give it an hour."
He grins and cranks up the volume as the chorus swells. I throw my hands up, fingers chasing the wind as freedom slips through, and I can't help but join his contagious smile.
"Why does it feel like we never aged?" I yell over the music.
"You didn't," he shouts back. "Still look like a baby."
"I'll always look like a baby." I give him a pompous side-glance.
"True. Heart-shaped face. Round eyes. Skin nicely elastic. You'll fool us guys for decades."
Alright. Don't ask him what else he noticed about you. No. Let the boring voice win. "For your information, I'm not fooling any guys anymore."
He tuts. "Relax, you prude."
"Excuse me?"
"Exactly." He smirks. "Stop saying 'excuse me' like that."
I toss my head back against the seat, squint at the strips of water shimmering in the distance, and pay him back with a dry, "Well, you haven't changed."
"I beg to differ." His tone is suddenly clipped. For no reason I can see.
"Ha! Who's proper now?" I jab, bouncing on my seat like I just scored a point.
"Whatever," he mutters, then grips the wheel tighter and floors it. The speedometer leaps to 100 in a flash.
He's either trying to outrun something or wanting me to beg him to slow down. Which I won't.
Instead, I roll my eyes. "Okay, you grump. That scruff suits your grumpy mood."
He snorts and runs a hand over his jaw. "I barely have a scruff, can't really grow it. Plus, I prefer it shaved."
"Me too," I say, mostly to see his reaction.
He flicks me a look. "Yeah? I might shave it then."
It feels as though he's saying it to see my reaction too. But I give him none, just shrug lazily.
He snorts. "Why'd you cut your hair?"
I pull a face and tilt toward him, bolder than I should be. "You want the absolute truth?"
"Always."
"It was a little fuck-off to you—I knew you liked it long," I say with pursed lips.
That makes his mouth fall open, out of words for a moment before he speaks again.
"No way. Damn. If you told me what idiot made you cut that beautiful hair, I'd smack him."
"Then smack yourself." I smirk while he's still shaking his head. "I do miss it long, though. Maybe I'll grow it again."
I'm not just saying it for him, I genuinely mean it. I used to think that hair represented your soul, and mine was always big and untamed.
"Please do." His voice goes softer, almost reverent. "Passing you in the lobby with long hair again? That'd be a dream."
I pull a face, even though that kind of got me. "Really? That'd be your dream?"
"Yeah," he doubles down, serious. "What's your dream?"
"Too many. As usual. You know me. I'm an endless dreamer."
"Don't say it like it's a personality defect. I like that about you. A lot."
It shouldn't feel so good when he says things like that, but it does. I bite back my grin and slide into the seat, getting comfortable.
"You don't think you should pick one and go all in?"
He pulls a face. "Screw that. Have a hundred. Dream big. Say them out loud, let them form and die. They don't have to come true to be real. That's why they're called dreams."
I stare at him for a beat, moved by the weight of it.
"Wow. Okay, philosopher. I think you're the writer here," I say then.
"Yeah, right." He smirks at the idea. "I did use to keep a diary, though. Until my mom found it and sentenced me to a year of Sunday school."
"No," I gasp. "That was supposed to be private."
"She didn't know. I was an idiot. Fifteen.
Didn't bother to get one with a lock. You know, hormones staging a coup on common sense.
" He rolls his eyes at himself and makes a sharp turn to the left.
"I had lots of meaningful stuff in there, but of course, she flipped it open the day my thoughts were borderline criminal. "
I sputter a laugh. "Ben, a teenage testosterone bomb? Cute."
"Mmm. Not really." He presses his tongue to his upper lip, hiding his grin. "I wrote a full page about this one girl in my school, how I'd back her up against the lockers and what I'd do to her. And I was... detailed. Mom told the priest I was possessed."
I slap my hand over my eyes, half-laughing, half-horrified.
Also, should I wish it was me—the girl with a broken reputation? No. I shouldn't.
"God. I'm buying you one with a lock, so you can become a dark romance novelist," I joke.
A hearty laugh bursts from him as he grins, unrepentant. "Don't judge me. Everyone's a little wild."
"Not me," I say, hand on my heart in self-defense. "My high school nickname was Literally Home By Nine."
He whips his head at me, searching my face, like he's not sure he heard me right. "Not you? Don't even try it, I've witnessed you."
I shoot him a look, caught off guard. Then shove his face away because he's unbelievable. “Stop flirting with me. Right now. It’s enough.”
“What?” He catches my hand and guides it between my thighs like there’s nowhere else it could go. “I’m not flirting.”
"Oh yeah?" My eyes narrow. "Then what are you doing?"
He tempers the smile that’s giving him away. “I’m a professional. I observe and state facts.”
"Uhum. Facts. Sure." I repeat, pursing my lips.
He nods, then starts firing them off fast. "Fact: you've never once been home by nine in your life if you didn't want to be. Fact: you break rules to feel alive. Fact—" his gaze flicks to my mouth, "—you like me saying all this."
"That's not a fact," I snap.
His mouth curves. "It's the truest one."
I shake my head and make an annoyed sound. Turn around and watch the seagulls, tasting the salt on my tongue.
We've been on the road for an hour. "Where are we even going? Or are you just driving until the tank runs dry?"
Not that I'd mind if he was.
"You need a tan," he declares, as if that was the whole point of this little abduction.
"You know my skin's dramatic. Peels. Blisters. I'll regret it in an hour," I half-protest even though every cell of me begs for the sun to melt the frostbite from my computer screen. Six months cooped up—it's showing.
"Yeah, yeah," he says flatly, and leans forward, arm grazing my knee—casually, not casually—before he pops open the glove compartment.
A bottle arcs into my lap.
"SPF 50. Got it just for Miss Dramatic."
I smirk, and pretend something in me didn't just loosen up. Because this is who he's always been—the guy who pays attention, even when he pretends he doesn't.