I know this because my cousin’s fiancé is obsessed with sports cars and he drags her to the annual auto show. She drags me along, so I can be miserable, too, and it always takes the entire weekend because God forbid the man is satisfied walking through once.
My eyes track the shiny sports car as it slowly creeps through the parking lot, windows tinted a reflective gunmetal gray. The whole visual is creepy and intimidating at the same time.
This is a guy who can afford forking over twenty-five grand—unless he’s one of those men who are all flash and no cash. All show and no dough…
Okay, so I don’t feel so guilty now. It’s not my problem how he chooses to spend his money.
I can’t even see through the windshield, but I know the second he spots me. Stops his car directly in front of mine, blocking me in—although logically, I know that’s not at all what he’s doing. Not technically, though I couldn’t pull my car out if I wanted to.
My heartbeat accelerates and I text Claire, my best friend: If you don’t hear from me in 5 minutes, call the police.
Claire: Are you there meeting the guy for the baseball card?
Me: Yes.
Claire: Okay—where are you so I know where to send the police?
Me: The police station.
Claire: I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.
Me: [sends a photograph of the guy’s car and the police station behind it]
Claire: Yeah, so if he tries to murder you, try screaming really loud.
Me: Ha ha, I’m glad you think this is funny. Oh shit—he’s getting out of his car!
The glossy black door opens slowly and one foot steps onto the pavement. Expensive sneaker, black track pants. One hand grasping the top of the door and within seconds, a head of black hair emerges from behind the smoke screen first.
Tan skin. Full lips.
What the actual…
Holy. Shit.
Who is this guy? He looks like a male model, big, buff, and so damn hot.
My phone pings again, Claire wanting a status update.
Claire: Are you still alive? Text me when you get this.
Me: Yeah yeah, hold on, I’m getting out of my car.
I slide my sunglasses on—not because it’s bright outside, but so I can continue gawking at this male specimen from behind their protective lenses. Where I come from (approximately 40 miles north of here), they don’t make men like this. I’m from a small town that produces construction workers, IT guys, and dudes who work for their families—not stud muffins who drive $100,000 sports cars and look as if they just stepped off the cover of GQ or Fitness Magazine. I wouldn’t know what to do with a man like this, but I sure don’t mind looking at him.
Since I can’t sit here forever, I pull back on the door handle. Lean across the center console and riffle through my purse for the baseball card, which has inconveniently slipped to the bottom.
Shit, where is it?
My fingers fumble, tips finally making contact with that smooth box. Grasp it and slip it into the pocket of my jeans as one of my feet hits the ground. Then the other, until I’m standing next to my truck, blushing.
Thank God he can’t see my eyes.
He’s tall—at least a foot above my five three—and wide, like a Mack truck. Not a bodybuilder, but someone who spends the majority of his time working out. Longer hair. Dark brown eyes. Chiseled jaw and cheekbones, covered in dark stubble.
No, Miranda. No.
Don’t you dare flirt. Do not you dare flirt.
The Goliath clears his throat.
“You Miranda?” The voice matches the stature, deep and masculine and daunting. If I heard it in a dark alley, I’d piss myself.
“Yeah—and y-you’re…” HOT. So hot. The kind of hot that makes angels fall from grace.
“Here for the card,” he answers, not confirming his name is Buzz like he said in his text, holding out his mammoth paw.
I glance down at it. Calloused. Rough. A contradiction for such a pretty man. He comes off more as the type who manscapes, spas, and manicures on the regular. His hands tell a different story or maybe it’s from all the gym time.
His car idles behind him.
“Let’s see the cash,” I demand, so unlike myself. Suddenly, I feel like I’m in a gangster movie, doing shady shit. I glance around, paranoia setting in. Shit, we’re probably being filmed. What if I’m being set up in a sting operation?
Don’t be stupid, Miranda—it’s not illegal to sell baseball paraphernalia.
Is it?
He leans into the Beemer and produces a large manila envelope; it’s fat and full, bursting at the seams. Holy shit, that is what being flush with cash looks like.
“Do you want to count this?” he asks, mouth set in a cocky line. An arrogant line. Smug, almost, as if he knows I’m not going to actually count the cash, in broad daylight, in the parking lot of the cop shop. “It’s in stacks of one thousand.”
Stacks of one thousand…right. He sounds so casual, but now that I’ve gotten a good look at him, I surmise he probably spends this kind of money at the clubs at night. A grand on a bottle of champagne in the VIP section. Bottle service and primo seating I would know nothing about if it wasn’t in the movies.
I swallow the lump in my throat, pretending to be calm. “Okay.”
He holds the envelope steady on his palm, as if presenting me with an hors d’oeuvre tray and expecting me to select an appetizer, balancing it steady. Waiting.
Knowing damn well I’m afraid to touch it.
“It won’t bite,” he says with a wolfish grin. “Although I might.”
I shoot him a look meant to wipe that egotistical look from his face, but it doesn’t work. Only makes the idiot’s grin widen.
So annoying.
So confusing.
Gingerly, my thumb and index finger pluck the envelope from his hand and he watches as I slowly peel back the flap to peer inside.
I’m flush with cash, and I want to shout I’m rich! at the top of my lungs. In the parking lot. Of the police station. At four in the afternoon.
Get a grip, Miranda—this is not yours to spend on a whim. It is going straight to the bank. I nod emphatically to myself.
“Now let’s see the merchandise,” the guy says.
I pull the card from the recesses of my back pocket, and he takes it. Puts it in his pocket.
“You’re not even going to look at it?” My eyes damn near bug out of my skull—who buys something like this and doesn’t bother to examine it?
Rich, spoiled dudes, that’s who.
“Sure.” He pulls it out and looks at it. Slides it back into his pocket. “There. Happy?”
Uh…not really, but whatever—not my problem if he gets home and finds a flaw. “No returns,” I inform him, crossing my arms.
He crosses his as well, muscles bulging beneath the thin fabric of his black athletic t-shirt.
I tilt my head and study him again. There is a small scar on his square jaw and an indent in his stubble where a dimple creases his cheek. His thick brows look recently waxed—and come to think of it, his arms look waxed, too.
I cannot with this guy.
I have a few guy friends who are vain, but none come close to the man standing in front of me.
“Well, nice doing business with you…” My sentence trails off as I wait for him to confirm he’s Buzz. I mean, yes, we already made the exchange and I have my money, but still.