“And from what the news has said about you, you’re the kind of guy who’s only capable of an intimate relationship with your steering wheel.”
He laughed at that. “Gloria does get a few good lines in her gossip column from time to time. The woman can turn a phrase, even if her observations are a bit…skewed.” Carter took a left on Prince Street, causing Daphne to sway a little toward his side. Her arm brushed against his, and she jerked it back. “Was the all-perfect, now-departed-from-your-life Jerry a car nut?”
Daphne laughed. “Definitely not. Jerry didn’t even like to drive. He preferred to let me be behind the wheel.”
“Whoa. What a man.”
Daphne let out a chuff. She refused to give Carter the satisfaction of knowing she was happy Jerry was out of her life. “You don’t have to drive the girl around to be a man.”
“Whatever happened to chivalry? Taking care of your woman and all that?” He braked for a stoplight, drumming his fingers on the top of the leather-wrapped steering wheel, clearly annoyed by the wait. His dark blue suit jacket strained against his shoulders.
“For your information, I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Oh. You’re one of those women.”
“What do you mean, one of those women?”
“The kind who says she doesn’t need a man when all she really needs is to meet the right man.”
Daphne shook her head. “I should have expected a line like that out of someone like you.”
“I see my reputation has preceded me once again.” He tossed her a grin, then returned his attention to the road. “Just don’t believe everything you read.” A sliver of something vulnerable slipped in between his words, but disappeared just as quickly.
She must have imagined it, Daphne decided.
This was exactly why she’d slipped into that rut with Jerry. To avoid men who pushed her buttons, who drove her crazy. An unpredictable, frustrating man like Carter Matthews should come with a Do Not Disturb sign.
Especially when that lock of hair fell down across his forehead again and everything within her itched to brush it back. It had to be the car. Something about a convertible made her want to do crazy things.
Things that pulled her focus away from what was important—work, not relationships. Work provided the steady concrete base Daphne needed in her life. People might let her down, but her job never did.
The light changed to green. The sound of the accelerator giving the car more gas sounded suspiciously like Carter saying, “Uh-huh.”
“So, what do you do?” Daphne asked, not to get to know Carter better, but only to change the subject toward anything other than male driving habits and how they could be relationship portents.
“When I’m not starring in the pages of the paper?”
She nodded.
“I own TweedleDee Toys.” He let out a heavy sigh and slowed as they approached orange signs denoting an ongoing construction project, flicking a glance at his watch as he did. She noticed the interior of his car was as neat as his apartment had been. Not a speck of dust or so much as a lone French fry littered any of the surfaces. New car smell hung sweet and heavy in the air. “Or at least I do today. The way things have been going, I might not tomorrow.”
She shouldn’t ask. She shouldn’t care. But the little part of her that always did her job did care. And felt that surge of need to help.
This time, it was a masochistic urge, she thought as Carter circumvented some roadwork by zipping down Central and back up Washington to Third. It had to have been the lines in his face, the ones that seemed to say he’d been having a hell of a last few weeks. “What do you mean, you might not have the company anymore soon?”
“I think you’ve had enough bad news for a couple days. I won’t burden you with mine.” He turned and grinned again, this time a softer, easier, more friendly smile.
In some countries it might even be considered cute.
The masochistic urge to help him multiplied tenfold. Okay, he had a nice smile. Too bad he was an arrogant jerk who drove women away and ruined other people’s love lives.
They ran into the same construction again at the end of Third Street. She saw him check his watch a second time, clearly not happy with the delay.
They sat there, idling in stopped traffic. She glanced at Carter and softened. Maybe her heart was bleeding a little this morning. Maybe she was overtired, or underfed. Either way, she sat there and began to think a guy with a smile like that couldn’t be all bad. Could he?
“I’m a corporate creativity coach,” she said. From all that she’d read about Carter Matthews in the local papers, he was new to the CEO thing and could likely use a little help.
Okay, maybe a lot.
“Are you the one who made toilet paper fun?”
She laughed. “That’s probably not the best job on my résumé—”
“But it is the cleanest.” He gave her a teasing grin. “What a small world. Your company has been on my To Do list for weeks. I even looked it up on the Internet, which is why you looked so familiar last night. Your firm came highly recommended by my brother.”
Heat rose in her cheeks at the unexpected praise. “Thanks. We’ve had some nice success in the last couple of years.”
He gestured toward the stopped cars in front of them. “If I had to be stuck in traffic with anyone, I’m glad it’s you. Creativity is the one thing my company—and my employees—seem to be lacking.”
“But you’re a toy company. Isn’t fun supposed to be part of your company motto?”
He inched the car forward. “You might want to tell my staff that, considering our latest creation was Cemetery Kitty. ‘Come watch her roll over and play dead.’”
“Oh, my.” Daphne put a hand over her mouth, holding back a laugh. “That’s bad. That’s really bad.”
“I can practically hear the whoosh of my corporate profits going down the white porcelain river ride.”
“What you need is a little creativity boost for your team.”
“What I need is a miracle,” he muttered, and once again the shade in his eyes drew back enough for her to see he was worried.
Another wave of sympathy ran through Daphne. She understood what that was like. In the early days at Creativity Masters, she had faced those uphill battles alone because she hadn’t been able to afford help. She’d had to prove she could make a living at something as “silly” as creativity. And she had, in spades.
A construction worker in an orange vest waved them forward. Carter, following the cars before him, wove his way between the bright neon cones and warning signs. The Lexus bumped a little over the rough road, jostling Daphne closer to Carter, then away.
A
