I place my hand up in the air and Jade high fives it. Sad that the only person who gets me in this room is the eight-year-old.
Chapter Thirteen
At seven pm on the dot, a grey SUV stops alongside the curb of my condo building downtown. The low hum of energy surrounding my body that seems to be ever present whenever he’s near, tells me it’s Roarke.
“See you Sunday, Nate,” I say to my doorman. “If I don’t return by Sunday night, find that man.”
I point to Roarke exiting his vehicle and ignoring the honking horns and taxi drivers flipping him off because he’s double parked.
Nate steadily walks across the foyer of the building and opens the door for him.
“Good evening,” he says to Roarke.
Roarke nods before his gaze falls on me. His teeth lock over his bottom lip and his gaze flies down my body lighting off sparks inside me like flint to steel. Nate lets the door close and moves to retrieve my bags, but Roarke beats him, snatching up the bags at my feet.
“I thought you’d have more,” he says, a smile tipping his lips up.
“Are you saying that you expect me to be high maintenance?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You are Hannah Crowley.”
“Now who’s making assumptions?” I follow him out of the safety of my condo building. “Thank you, Nate. Please take down the license plate number should anything happen to me.”
Roarke glances over his shoulder, lightly shaking his head.
“You are sort of kidnapping me.”
He places my bags into the back of what I now see is a high-end Range Rover. Like the man would drive a Ford.
“If memory serves, you’re getting something for coming with me.” His hand moves up in the air, telling Nate to not open my door. Nate slinks back toward the building. He’s obviously used to arrogant men like Roarke who like to tell him how they want things to go.
“Have a good trip, Ms. Crowley,” he calls out before he re-enters the building.
“Thank you, Nate.”
Roarke opens the passenger door for me.
I climb inside and turn to address him. “I suppose you’re right, but I still think three nights is pushing the envelope of what can be considered a favor.” I place my purse on the floor near my feet, relax into the leather seat and reach for the seatbelt.
“As usual, we can agree to disagree.” The door shuts, and he rounds the front of the car, looking especially good in his three-piece suit while he continues to ignore the insulting names screamed at him from passing taxi drivers. He sits down in the driver’s seat, inserting the key in the ignition. “You ready?”
I nod, keeping my head buried in my phone. Good a time as any to organize my apps.
“Are you going to make me use a favor to get you to ditch your phone?” I can see from my peripheral vision that he doesn’t bother looking at me when he speaks but turns the wheel to enter Chicago traffic.
“When do you think we’ll arrive?”
The SUV stops two feet down the road.
“In about four hours. Sorry, I had a late business meeting and that’s why we’re leaving late. Just think though, it’s less time you have to be around me.”
For some reason, his words make it clear to me what a bitch I’m being. Yes, I’m here under the pressure of these favors, but he did secure the venue for me and I did agree to the favors in the first place. Clicking my phone screen off, I cross my legs and stare out at the sea of red taillights in front of us.
“It will probably take us an hour to get out of the city,” I say.
He looks at the mirrors, his hands on the steering wheel and then swiftly changes lanes. “Yeah, that’s why this isn’t ideal, but it won’t be half as bad as if we left at five.”
For the next ten minutes, Roarke weaves through the side streets of Chicago like a veteran cabbie. I won’t tell him, but his driving skills are impressive. If I’m truthful, they’re sexy and the truck’s not even a stick shift.
“Music?” I ask, pointing to the dial.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Anything in particular you feel like?”
He slams on the brakes, his arm swinging out over to my torso as my body shifts forward on the seat.
Cars whizz by in front of us. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Impressive mom skills you got there.” I wait for my seatbelt to loosen and reach for the dial on the radio.
“How do you know I wasn’t just trying to cop a feel?” He glances over at me and a tingle erupts in the pit of my belly.
“I don’t think you’re that daring at this point.” I scroll through the presets on the radio.
“Assumptions again. Don’t forget, I am hoping to seduce you, Hannah.”
Why is it that every time he says my name, it stirs something inside of me?
“I thought I was just a date to a wedding?”
“Everyone knows women are more willing to give it up at a wedding.”
I tilt my head and stare at him for a second. He keeps the act up for a good couple seconds before a laugh bellows out. His lips tip and his smile sends a warm sensation through my body.
“Did you just make a joke?” I ask with mock astonishment.
The car speeds up once we reach the freeway clear of the downtown traffic.
“Some people enjoy my sense of humor,” he says before checking the mirror and changing lanes.
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen it.”
Roarke shakes his head at me and presses a radio preset button and classical musical streams through the car. Then he puts his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel and focuses on the road. He hums the tune, oblivious to me watching him.
We continue sailing down the freeway since rush hour is over, the only sound besides the tires running over the cement are oboes and violins. Roarke switches lanes to pass a slow driver in the left lane, effortlessly moving back into the fast lane.
So he’s one of those drivers, huh? Not that it surprises me. Never stops or slows, just whizzes back and forth. He’s the guy you hope to see pulled over a few miles ahead, though I will say his arrogant and cocky Mario Andretti driving style suits him.
“Okay, even I can’t pretend that long.” His long fingers press a dial on his steering wheel and the volume decreases.
Confused by the whole situation, I glance over and he’s got a shit eating grin on his face.
“What?”
“I just put that on because you keep making assumptions about me. I’d never listen to that shit out of choice. You want to know my music? This is what I listen to.” He switches from the radio over to Bluetooth, his phone lighting up in the center console signaling that it’s streaming.
“Regulate” by Warren G. begins playing.
I turn my head tilts his way and he raises his eyebrows. “Surprised?”
I nod toward his phone. “May I?”
“Please.” He picks up his phone and hands it over to me.
I scroll through his music and all that’s listed is nineties hip-hop. Snoop Dog, House of Pain, Salt-N-Pepa, LL Cool J. “Vanilla Ice?” I ask.
He shrugs and a pink tint warms his face. “Don’t even try to deny that you loved that song at one point in your life.”