Off Limits (8 page)

I purse my lips around my straw to suck up the dregs of the cocktail. As if signaled by magic, our server appears at my elbow. "Another drink, miss?" he asks, and Heather nods and holds up two fingers, before I can say yea or nay.

Ah well. It's been too long since I had a good long chat with my bestie, some drinks are required. "Well he seems really sweet, as far as I can tell. I mean, he might be a manwhore or a serial killer, you never know I guess, but—”

Heather swats at my arm, though she's laughing as she does. "Trust you to be the optimist."

"I just like to consider all possibilities!"

"Uh huh." She smirks. "So what about you; have I missed any new
possibilities
cropping up for you?"

Insanely, stupidly, my mind flashes straight to Max. The way his eyes flash when they catch mine. The hard turn of his jaw when he's bent over a case file. Hell, even the angry line that appeared between his eyebrows when we argued this morning in front of the elevator. Part of me wanted to scream at him, but another part—an embarrassingly big part—just wanted to grab him and make him stop talking and put that mouth to better use.

My cheeks flush. Nope. No real possibility of that, ever. "There's the possibility I might leave my office more frequently?" I reply, keeping an easy grin on, and hoping that Heather won't notice my split second of fantasizing hesitation. "Who knows. Maybe I'll meet someone when I start venturing back into the real world beyond the desk. What about you, how's everything else been? Work and that project you were talking about . . . what was it again?"

The waiter returns with a couple more of the very strong, very tasty rum drinks, and I sip mine as Heather fills me in on her own current dramas, work war stories and successes, and who's fighting with who in our extended friend group. Before I know it, an hour has flown by. It's getting on for 10pm by now, and I need to be up early for the trip. Not to mention I haven't finished packing yet.

But the waiter has been great about keeping our glasses filled, and with the rum sparkling in my veins, when Mark returns to our table and extends a hand to both of us, just as salsa music erupts in the background and most of Heather's coworkers pour onto the dance floor, I can't resist. It's been too long since I've done something so irresponsible.

It's been too long since I've done something, period.

So I accept his hand, link my other arm around Heather's, and the three of us swing out onto the hardwood floor of the club, fresh drinks in hand and our hips swaying to the beat.

I'll deal with tomorrow tomorrow. For now, I'm all about tonight.

I
sit
in the sporty little convertible Ferrari I rented for this day trip, idling outside the address Chloe emailed me a week ago. Little Miss OCD Planner is running late.

Very late.

I check the clock on the dashboard again and dial her number for the fifth time since I pulled up almost an hour ago. If I'm honest, part of me is starting to worry. As many complaints as I have about Chloe, tardiness has never been one of them. Especially not for a job this important, on a day when we really need to be on schedule. Did something happen to her? By this point in our working relationship, I was used to waking up with at least three email forwards from her in my inbox, usually dated 6am or some ungodly hour, because the woman appeared to be a true morning person. But I haven’t heard a peep from her since our confrontation in the elevator bank yesterday.

She might still be mad, but she’d at least send me a detailed schedule of how mad she’ll be throughout which steps of this case-planning process to go with her anger.

I'm climbing out of the car to go and ring her bell when her front door finally opens, and Chloe steps outside.

Or at least, I assume it's Chloe. It's a bit hard to tell, given the enormous sunhat she's wearing and the sunglasses that envelop her narrow, delicate face, in place of her usual glasses. But no one else would wear heels quite that deadly-looking at this hour of the morning, so I figure it's got to be my girl.

My girl
? No. My incessantly-fastidious-to-the-point-of-driving-me-insane coworker. That’s all.

"Chloe?" I leave the convertible to cross the pavement to her door. "Need a hand?" She's lugging what looks like half of her apartment. Who needs that much stuff for one short trip? We're only going to be staying at Suzie's ranch for a few nights, two at most. Yet Chloe looks like she's prepared for a weeklong trip to the Sahara, to judge by the size of her suitcase.

She squints at me, her lips bared as the sunlight strikes her face, and that's when I realize. The narrowed eyes, the deep grimace, the complete lack of makeup on her face, the way her hair, where it sticks out from under the wide-brimmed hat, is wild and frizzy, not tamed into its usual tight curls . . . she's as infuriatingly sexy as ever, but one thing is fairly obvious.

"Fun night?" I ask, lifting one eyebrow.

"Rum is the devil. I think I'm dying," she says. Her voice comes out hoarse and choked. But when I extend a hand to take her suitcase, at least she lets me take it from her, and carry it across the sidewalk to the car.

That, more than anything, makes me realize how much she's hurting. Normally, Chloe MacIntyre refuses to so much as allow someone to hold a door open for her, let alone carry something.

Annoyed as I may be at her lately, I can’t stand the sight of her suffering right now.

"I'll be right back," I tell her, my eyes already fixed on the corner, where a dingy painted sign advertises a small bodega.

She nods, though I'm not sure she really heard me. She's too busy leaning against the car door, unsteady in her heels. I'm not sure if she's suffering from the world's worst hangover, or if she's still drunk, but either way, I think I know the remedy.

By the time I return from the bodega, she's managed to hoist herself into the passenger seat, where she's doubled over, her head pressed between her palms, her forefingers rubbing at her temples. She’s swapped her sunglasses for her regular glasses, at least, now that she’s realized it’s the usual degree of still-foggy San Francisco morning out here.

I much prefer her real glasses. Makes it easier to see her eyes.

"Drink this," I tell her, as I press a cup of coffee into her hands. XL black coffee with a shot of espresso, just the way I've seen her order it in the work cafeteria a dozen times.

“Why, did you poison it?” She peers out from under her hat suspiciously. But when I thrust the cup at her, she accepts it.

“Don’t you trust me, Chloe?”

Her eyes lock onto mine and hold there for a fraction of a second. Somehow, it feels like much more time passes, as we’re frozen there, memorizing one another. There’s tiny flecks of gold dotted through her hazel eyes. I never noticed that before.

She accepts the cup and takes a tiny sip. Almost immediately, her shoulders relax a fraction, and she sits up a little straighter. "What’s in this?" she asks, her voice still broken. It's kind of sexy, that throaty tone. I can imagine her calling my name in that voice as I drive into her, fucking her so hard she can’t think anymore, can’t do anything but beg me to let her come.

I shake my shoulders, dragging myself back into the present. "Espresso. One shot, just the way you like." I hop over the driver's side door into the seat, keys in hand.

There's a long, pregnant pause, during which she doesn't drink any more of the coffee. I can feel her eyes boring into me, and from the corner of my eye, I notice the strange expression she's wearing. Half confusion, half grateful relief.

"How did you remember that?" she finally says, before she takes another drink, a longer one this time. Her eyes close as she savors the caffeine.

I shrug one shoulder and turn the key in the ignition. "Guess it's just a memorable order. That stuff could probably strip the paint off a wall, you know."

"It gets the job done." She clears her throat gently. "Especially right about now. Thank you, Max."

"Don't thank me yet," I say. "We still have a four-hour drive ahead of us."

Chloe groans softly. "Forgive me if I pass out. Or puke."

I lean over to tap the glove compartment as we pull out of the parking spot and onto the street. "There's some bags of salad and sandwiches in there. Try to take the food out first if you need to puke in the bag, though."

"You packed lunch?" She squints through the side of her glasses in my general direction.

I avoid her eyes. Because, really, I'm used to packing food for Travis, for days when we meet up after school at the mentor program. His mom is pretty busy, and money's tight, so she doesn't always have the time or the cash to give him much more than ramen for dinner. I try to make sure he gets at least a few other food groups into his diet, on the nights when I can.

It was just second nature to prep for this road trip the same way. For some reason, though, I don't want to talk about Travis with Chloe. She’s made up her mind about me already—I’m just the office playboy. I wouldn’t want to spoil the illusion for her.

"I figured it would be faster than stopping along the way," I reply.

She's quiet for another stretch of road. Actually, I would think maybe she'd fallen asleep, except that every now and then she's still sipping at the coffee gripped between her palms. As we reach the highway, though, the wind whipping around us, with the top down the way I have it to catch the fresh, sunny air today, she clears her throat.

"You didn't have to do that," she says, loud enough that I can hear her over the accelerating wind. "Pack food, I mean."

"No big deal." I shrug. "I wanted to. Besides, maybe if lunch doesn't suck you'll stop hating me."

She snorts, then rolls her eyes. "I don't
hate
you."

I feign a shocked expression. "News to me."

"I just think you're arrogant," she continues with a toss of her head. "After all, the girls at the office fawn all over you, and you flirt right back."

“Flirting is fun,” I respond.
And the girls at the office don't know me at all either
, I think. Aloud, though, I add, "Besides, you love my arrogance." For a second I'm not sure I actually said that loud enough for her to hear over the sudden rush of wind as we reach the main highway up toward Suzie's place. But then she shoots me another dramatic eye roll behind her glasses and sinks deeper into her seat.

"You wish," she says, barely loud enough for me to hear. A moment or two passes in silence, before she leans in a little closer. "Why are you being so nice to me anyway? I thought I drove you just as crazy as you drive me."

You have no idea, Miss MacIntyre
, I want to say. But I know better. That’s a step over a line that I’m desperately trying to resist crossing.

I cast a sideways glance at her, at her hair where it whips around her face in the wind from the road, at her lush, full lips half-parted as she watches me. For a second, I see past the facade she throws up in the courtroom, at work, in meetings, everywhere she goes really. For a second, she looks, not like an uptight badass and snarky litigator, but like herself. Still snarky, true, but also vulnerable. And a little bit fragile this morning.

"Let's just say I think I know how you're feeling," I respond. Then I crank up the radio station, and let her drift off into her thoughts as I lean on the gas.

The time flies by, with the sun on my face and the engine purring loud and reassuring beneath us. It's been a while since I've had my hands on a decent vehicle—a while since I've driven anything, actually, let alone a car as easy to maneuver as this one.

I make up for some of our lost time in speeding between all the stretches without police supervision, something I still remember from back in the day when I was a little more sociable and a lot more reckless. This was the route we used to take up north every summer, my college buddies and I, on god knows how many ill-advised road trips.

Chloe stirs in her seat, shading her eyes as she squints at the scenery around us. “You’re quiet,” she remarks. “I didn’t realize you ever stopped talking for this long.”

“Would the dulcet tones of my voice help ease your headache?” I grin sideways at her, just in time to catch her lip jutting out in a pout that is equal parts adorable and oddly satisfying.

“Very funny.”

“Because I can talk more if it will help, no problem at all. I could tell you the story of the last time I was as hungover as you are.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry I brought it up,” she groans, but she’s laughing, underneath it.

“Well, if you don’t want it to be quiet, and you don’t want me to talk, I guess you’ll have to fill the silence. How did you wind up in this state, anyway?”

She sighs, all playfully dramatic. “Let’s just say I tried to make up for a few too many girls’ nights out all in one evening. Also, rum is the devil.”

I nod in sympathy. “I was always more of a whiskey man myself.” I turn off onto our exit, and Chloe scoots a little higher in her seat.

“This it already?”

“‘Already,’ says the woman who slept through ninety percent of the drive.”

“We already covered that, it was because I was suffering from a lack of the dulcet tones of your voice.”

“So you
do
like my voice.”

“I never said that!” She crosses her arms.

“You just called it dulcet.”

“That’s beside the point.” Chloe tosses her head, probably to emphasize said point. The movement dislodges her hat, though, and I barely have time to reach up and snatch it before the wind whistling around the convertible steals it away.

She blinks for a moment, her blonde curls crazier than ever today, whipping wild across her face. Then she breaks out into a wide smile, as she reaches for the hat. Her hair, her smile, the air siphoning around us, it all makes me want to stop the car right here and grab her, pull that wild hair out of her eyes and bend her back along the seat, and rip that summery, thin top off of her.

Fucking hell, don’t do this to yourself, Davis
. I shove the hat into her lap.

“You never told me you part-timed as a ninja,” she says, in a softer voice now that the car is slowing down, and the wind isn’t whipping quite so loudly.

“I’d hardly call it part-time. Really only a hobbyist ninja, actually.”

“Well you—holy shit.” Chloe breaks off as we turn up the street toward the address in the GPS, Suzie’s address.

I have to agree. This is not quite what I was picturing.

“Is that her
house
?” Chloe gapes at the place.

In retrospect, I suppose we should have expected something like this from Suzie. The place is sprawling, that’s for sure—what she called a “ranch house,” I would definitely call a mansion instead. “I guess exercise videos pay well,” I say as we roll up the driveway.

“And make you a little bit crazy, too?” Chloe replies. Probably because said mansion stands about ten feet off the ground, propped up on huge pillars so it almost blends into the canopy of the huge trees surrounding it. The house itself consists of a few off-white oblong concrete structures in various shapes and sizes, making the entire construction resemble nothing so much as a mushroom colony.

“She did say it was the white one,” I say, consulting the instructions in my work email with a glance. Sure enough, the instructions are just like I remembered.
Take the exit, turn right off the ramp and head straight up the street—it’s at the end of the block, the white one. You can’t miss it.

I pass Chloe my phone, and she stifles a laugh with the back of her hand. “Well, she’s not lying. You definitely can’t miss it.”

I shut the car off and we make eye contact for one last time. Her hair has settled around her cheeks now, still looking wild and windswept, but in a way that only makes me wonder what that hair would look like if I had her sprawled beneath me on a bed, my hands wrapped in it, her lithe, tight little body writhing beneath me.

Chloe swallows once, and it’s all I can do not to watch the slow bob of her neck, or the way her eyes dip down to my mouth, just for a split second. It’s enough, though, to tell me she’s thinking something along the same lines.

Shit.

“Well.” I push out of my seat and hop out of the car, slamming my door hard, as if that crack of noise will break the tension between us. “Here goes nothing.”