spreading from his hand through her shoulder. “I’m not worried.”
“Of course you’re not.” His tone was desert-dry.
Her lips tightened and she shifted. His hand fell away and it frustrated her no end that she missed his comforting touch. He would forget her the second his gaze fell on another female above the age of consent. It would do her well to remember that.
“I can probably get a weather report on the car radio. Which is more than we can get staying cooped up in here.” He headed toward the back of the office again, and she quickly followed, stopping long enough to grab her purse and her fake-suede blazer from where she’d dumped them. They both were still damp, too.
She joined him at the door on the side of the building that opened onto a covered area between his building and Cornelia’s. His red sports car was parked there, protected somewhat from the elements. Beyond the car, she spotted the boats harbored in the marina, swaying in the water. No Merrick & Sullivan boats, though. He’d told her they’d pulled their rental fleet out of the water for maintenance.
“Stay inside while I get it started.”
She was glad to. One hint of the cold air outside was enough to make goose bumps sprout on her eyelashes. So she pulled the door closed and waited until she heard the engine running and he gave a quick honk. Then, even though it was his engine, it was still the sound of escape, so she pulled the door closed behind her and ran out to the car. “What about the door? Does it lock automatically?”
“Yeah.” Air was blowing from the heater vents with a promising hint of warmth and he was fiddling with the high-tech-looking radio. His profile was sharp and clear and more mesmerizing than she wanted to admit. “Seat belt.”
She jumped a little when he glanced at her, then felt her face flush. She fastened the belt. “Cornelia’s door locks automatically, too,” she blathered. “That’s, uh, that’s why I couldn’t get back in her building yesterday.”
His gaze slid over her again. “You mentioned.”
She flushed even harder. Right. She’d been full of excuses when he’d pulled her inside his office the evening before. Including the mistakes she’d made in not taking her car to the mechanic when it had started making a new symphony of noises and not really believing the weather reports when they warned everyone to take immediate shelter.
She’d just made one mistake after another.
Her gaze strayed to the way his thigh bulged against his faded jeans.
Followed by the biggest mistake of all.
He put the car into gear and slowly nudged out from beneath the overhang, turning onto the street lined with red brick buildings similar to his and Cornelia’s.
They drove for three blocks heading inland from the Ballard waterfront before they spotted another occupied vehicle. The heater was doing its job very well now; she imagined her clothes were starting to put off steam. It was a better excuse than thinking she was overheating just from sitting inches away from him inside his hot rod of a car, watching his long fingers, deft and easy on the gear shaft.
She dragged her eyes away and looked out at the icy city, trying to empty her mind.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
How did he do that? “I’m thinking about how I’m going to get to work tomorrow,” she lied.
He snorted softly. “I’ll bet you Honey Girl that you’re not.”
She knew that Honey Girl was his 65-foot sailboat. That he’d built her by hand. That he’d received offers from around the world to buy her, and that women all over the city jumped at the opportunity to be invited aboard.
“Even if you were thinking about work—which you’re not—” he shot her a grin “—I’m pretty certain there won’t be anyone working at the Tub tomorrow. Listen.” He tapped the car radio. “They’re still advising everyone to stay off the roads unless it’s an emergency.”
“Driving me home to my apartment probably doesn’t qualify.”
“Sure it does.” His dimple appeared. “Medical emergency.”
“A feline one.”
“Doesn’t make it unimportant.” He stopped at an intersection where the traffic lights were all flashing red and, even as slowly as he was going, the car eased sideways a little. But there were no other cars present. “If my dog Hooch needed medicine every day, you can take it to the bank that I’d find a way to get it to him.”
She’d written eight articles about Pax. She knew he’d grown up in the little town of Port Orchard across the sound, where he and his business partner had first started out building boats, that he now lived on the top floor of a luxury building in trendy Belltown, and that he had a well-known weakness for anything chocolate. “You never said you had a dog.”
“Would you have said yes the first time I asked you out if I had? Or the second time or the third?”
Her ex-fiancé, Bruce, had had a dog. He’d dumped her two days before their wedding.
“No.”
Pax watched her for a moment, then continued through the empty intersection. “And what about now?”
“I told you. This was a—”
“—mistake. Yeah. I remember. Why?”
She stifled a sigh. “Because!”
He raised an eyebrow. “Figured a journalist like you would be better in a war of words than that, sweetheart.”
“Even if I believed in relationships—which I do not—I wouldn’t be foolish enough to expect anything from you. And I don’t have time in my life to play around.” She was busy enough trying to keep her head above water between the Washtub and her gig with Cornelia.
His lips twisted. “You always have been hard on my ego.”
“Please.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Flirting is as second nature to you as breathing. Nothing I could say or do would dent your ego.”
“Why don’t you believe in relationships?”
She exhaled and looked out the side window again. Thankfully, her apartment was only a block away now. “Who in their right mind does? Just drop me at the top of the hill. If my street is icy, you won’t make it back up again because I’m pretty sure this little toy of yours isn’t sporting four-wheel drive.”
“I’ll have to let my parents know they’re not in their right minds.” His voice was mild. “Believing in relationships as they tend to do.”
“They’re the exception rather than the rule.”
“You’re what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-eight.” And he was ten years her senior. His birthday had been in August, and Harvey’d had her camping outside the nightclub across from his apartment building with her camera to get photos of any gossip-worthy patrons
