would I do that? Especially considering you’re the asshole who’s responsible for messing up my class these past two weeks.”
“Because you want to,” I say. “And, in life, I have found there is no better reason.”
“So if I, like, want to dropkick an elderly lady because she’s taking too long at the checkout, I should just go ahead and do it?”
My own laughter hits me like a slap. How long since I have laughed with anybody but Mother or Emily?
The red-haired woman—Hazel, she said—smiles despite herself, half-turned toward me, a silhouette of sin in the night.
But, just as quickly, the smile is gone. “I don’t know you. We just met. You’re clearly in charge of these animals. There you go: three reasons not to go for a drink with you.”
Slowly, I move up behind her. She doesn’t turn, but her body gets stiff.
“Desire,” I say. “There is nothing more important in this world.”
“Save the bullshit philosophy,” she whispers, but it comes out in a strained voice that says the exact opposite. “And back the fuck up.”
“One drink, Snow White. Or rather, Fire and Snow White. What can it hurt?”
“Fire and snow?” she snaps. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk?”
I point to her hair. “Fire.” And then I grab her wrist and flip it upside down, exposing her pale forearm to the moonlight. “Snow.” She’s still facing away from me, her back flush against my chest, so I can’t read her expression. But I sense a shiver coursing through her. “Not to mention,” I add, “you seem to pinwheel from feisty to submissive and back again. ‘Hot and cold’ might be the more common iteration of what I’m saying.”
“Are you in the habit of making up little nicknames for women you just met?” she asks quietly.
“No,” I tell her honestly.
“Then why me?”
“Because I can’t help myself.”
She glances at me then, and the fire in her hair spreads to her green eyes. “One drink,” she says. “But only because I’ve had a long, long day, and considering you pulled up in a limo and I got here in a jacked-up Civic, I think it’s safe to assume that you’ll be paying.”
I’m still holding her wrist. She’s hot to the touch. Her fingertips shake, too, as though her heartbeat is outrunning her ability to think clearly. I know the feeling.
As if she can sense what I’m sensing is happening inside of her and she doesn’t like the transparency, she abruptly yanks her arm out of my grasp, takes two steps away and pivots to face me.
“Shall we go, then?” I ask her, amused.
“I drink top shelf only,” she says with the bluster of someone who never, ever drinks top shelf.
But I say nothing. I just nod and point towards the limousine, waiting for us with the door yawning open like the mouth of a cave.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she says as the limo glides lazily through the city. The lights get brighter as we reach the high-class area where Sole Nero, the club I own, is situated.
“We haven’t done anything yet.”
“‘Yet’?” She laughs. “Don’t get any ideas, big fella. We’re just going for a drink.”
Just then, the car veers wildly to the right. The tires screech, and the unexpected jolt sends Hazel tumbling into my lap. I catch her.
For the briefest of moments, I marvel at how light and weightless she feels in my hand. Like a snowflake that might melt away at any moment. My hand is on her thigh, keeping her steady, tracing each corded muscle. She must be a runner, or a weightlifter. She feels thin but strong, like braided wire. She’s all woman.
“Sorry, boss,” the driver calls back to us. “Accident.”
I glance out the window to see a delivery truck flipped on its side, smoke emanating from the hood. We slide past it and leave it behind.
Again, Hazel seems to be on the precipice of falling over the cliff’s edge of emotion before she collects her thoughts and thrusts herself away from me. I let her go. My cock throbs again.
We say nothing for the next few minutes, nor do we look at each other. Only when the limo stops outside the club’s glittering red façade do I walk around to her side of the car and offer my hand to help her out.
She brushes it away with a toss of the head. “Thanks but no thanks. I think I can manage the six-inch drop-off. I’m not a—what’d you call me?—a helpless maiden.”