Summer Love_ A Steamy Small Town Romance Anthology - Piper Rayne Page 0,253

seeps into my bones. It isn’t cold by any means, but in a tank top and cut-off shorts, it’s a little chilly.

“So… Shall we?” I ask.

He slips off his designer jacket and hangs it over my shoulders. The scents of orange and sandalwood envelope me, nearly knocking me on my ass all over again.

How can he smell so damn good?

“Thanks,” I murmur, peeking up at him.

“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and puts some space between us again. “Do you want to take my car, or should we take yours since you’re supposed to be studying?”

“I actually live on the top floor of this building, so I don’t exactly have to drive to work.”

“Ah.” He nods his understanding. “Got it. Follow me.”

He tangles his fingers with mine and leads me across the parking lot to my freaking dream car––a 1967 Shelby GT 500.

My mouth gapes. “I-is this your car?”

Head cocked, he answers, “Yes?”

“How?”

He laughs. “I like to drive.”

“Well, yeah. When it’s a beauty like this, I don’t blame you. Hello, Eleanor,” I purr, running my hand along the charcoal gray curves of the gorgeous vehicle.

“Pardon?”

“It’s from Gone in Sixty Seconds. My dad’s favorite movie. There’s a car––”

“Named Eleanor,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. I know. It’s why I bought her. You’ve seen that movie?”

“What? You think I’m too young for that one, Cradle Robber?” I tease.

He opens the passenger door for me and helps me inside. “Oh, so now, I’m Cradle Robber?”

“Only if I’m Princess. How old are you, anyway?”

“Younger than you’d probably think.”

My gaze flicks toward the white streaks in his slicked-back hair.

“It’s called Poliosis,” he explains, reading my mind. “I quit dying it by the time I reached middle school.”

“Oh.” My fingers itch to reach out and touch it, but I restrain myself. It’s kind of sexy. Sophisticated, almost. And it only makes me like him more. “You still didn’t answer my question, though.”

“About my age?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m thirty-eight, Sam.”

Thirty-eight? I can do thirty-eight.

“Is that a problem?” he challenges.

“Not at all,” I answer vaguely.

With a dark chuckle, he leans over me and buckles my seatbelt, his hand softly grazing between my breasts as he stretches the nylon strap around me. That same familiar scent hits me at full force, making my mouth water before his low voice vibrates next to my ear. “Does that still make me a cradle robber?”

His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t give me the much-needed space to breathe. To think clearly. To not kiss the crap out of him when he’s this close and is looking at me like he could devour me whole.

I lick my lips, then shake my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.” The sound vibrates up my throat in the otherwise silent car, acting like a siren if the heat in his eyes is anything to go by. He steps back and closes the door quietly. Like he didn’t just rock my world with a single heated look. A simple touch. A decadent scent that’s already tattooed itself in my mind. Oh, that smell. It’s like an aphrodisiac all on its own. Lifting my shoulder that’s still shrouded in his suit jacket, I sniff softly.

I’m in so much trouble.

My heart pounds against my ribcage as he rounds the front of the car before slipping behind the wheel with a finesse that’s damn near hypnotizing. He squeezes the steering wheel, making the veins in his hands and upper wrists pop as he backs out of the parking spot.

I gulp.

“So, tell me. What’s wrong with being a princess?” he asks.

“I dunno? I guess it makes me feel like a damsel in distress or something. What’s wrong with being a cradle robber?”

“Because it makes me feel like I’m way too old for you when I’m hoping I’m not.” He gives me the side-eye. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-six. I know, I know. It makes me feel like a grandma, going to school and hanging out with a bunch of twenty-year-olds. But my mom got sick during my freshman year, and I put my schooling on hold to help take care of her. And once she was officially cancer-free again a couple of years later, I was able to go back to school.”

“So you can take over SeaBird,” he surmises.

“Exactly. And what do you do, mister No-First-Name Music Man?”

His mouth quirks up on one side. “A little bit of everything.”

“That’s not vague at all.”

He laughs. “Let’s just say that I’m a good judge of character.”

“Because that’s less vague,” I tease, loving our banter way