Well, surely she’d been mistaken. That was his phone or his wallet, not …
At the sense memory of that firm ridge against her upper belly, she reached desperately for her water bottle and took a long, long drink from the condensation-beaded plastic.
She would not look at his zipper placket again. She would not.
Even though, when they’d finally stepped apart on his driveway, she could have sworn his jeans fit a bit … differently … in that region than they usually did. And the kiss he’d pressed to her flushed skin then hadn’t landed on her temple or forehead.
He’d kissed her cheek, maybe a bare millimeter from the corner of her mouth.
Friends, she told herself for the millionth time that morning. He’s my all-too-affectionate friend, and he doesn’t understand what he’s doing to me.
When he spoke again in the hushed, intimate cocoon of the car, she had to jerk her gaze up from—dammit—where it kept drifting, despite her best intentions.
“That bumper sticker is essentially a monument, Wren.” He glanced behind him before switching lanes. “Also, my car isn’t that expensive.”
He was smiling at the road ahead and the bumper-to-bumper traffic it contained. When a song he especially liked played over the discreetly placed speakers, he hummed along, off-key. His shoulders were loose, his movements easy and fluid.
Despite all his professional woes, she’d never seen him look so relaxed and entirely pleased with himself and the world.
His happiness didn’t hinge on her presence, of course, but the sight of his joy still ignited a spark of pleasure inside her. Because he was able to let down his guard in her company. Because he deserved every bit of his seeming delight. Because he wanted her beside him in this car—which was, no matter what he claimed, unmistakably luxe.
“Really? It’s not that expensive?” Brows raised high, she traced a fingertip over the pleated interior trim on the passenger door. “Because I don’t remember fabric folded to look like origami inside vehicles in my price range. Or massage settings for buttery-soft leather seats.”
She did not like the speculative glance he darted her way then.
“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” she said sternly. “If you buy me a damn car, I’ll immediately donate it to charity.”
“You’d do it too.” It was a grumble. “Harpy.”
She snuggled deeper into her seat, satisfied. “Correct.”
He heaved an aggrieved sigh, despite the smile still creasing his bearded cheeks. “Okay, so this model wasn’t cheap, but a bunch of my costars have sports cars instead. Plural.”
A sports car couldn’t possibly be any more luxurious than this. She caressed the sleek, polished wood on the dash, tracing the herringbone pattern with her fingertips.
They were stopped in traffic for the moment, and he appeared to be staring at the dashboard too, although the sunglasses made it hard to say for sure.
His white teeth sank into his lower lip, and the car ahead of them accelerated.
They didn’t.
“Alex?” Even as she pointed to the now-open road, the SUV behind them honked. “Alex, we need to move.”
The next honk was way longer and part of a growing chorus of discontent, and he jumped a little before facing forward again and stomping on his own accelerator.
He cleared his throat and paid careful attention to the road. “Sorry. Lost focus for a minute there.”
He jabbed at the control screen to lower the temperature and raise the fan speed for his side of the car, high color burnishing his cheekbones.
Another tap. Another. “It’s fucking hot in here. Shit.”
Maybe the sun was more intense on the driver’s side, because she was pretty comfortable.
She frowned. “Do you need more water?”
“Nope.” His tone did not invite further discussion. “Anyway, my mom has the same model as mine, just in a different color. I kind of liked the idea of us driving matching cars.”
He’d clearly bought her that car, and the sweetness of the gesture pierced Lauren’s heart.
He rarely mentioned his mom, although Lauren knew the two of them talked regularly on the phone. She’d wondered about their relationship, but now she knew: Alex loved his mother. He wasn’t a man to love half-heartedly, and their matching cars were further proof.
“Does she live in California?” Lauren asked.
They were nearing Santa Monica. Soon, they’d merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway and drive right along the water for miles and miles, heading up the coast on that famous ribbon of road sandwiched between the vast, sparkling ocean and steep, rugged mountains. Decades had passed since her last extended trip along the PCH, and she couldn’t wait.