They go quiet, but make no mistake, their silence isn’t agreement.
Of course, with all the judgment they’re not saying aloud, we end the call a moment later, and lipstick is the only thing I’m sure about packing.
I manage to finish my makeup and throw on a cute lavender sundress and espadrilles. Along with my hiking boots and swimsuit, I add a change of clothes and a blow-dryer to my tote bag. But when Linc’s horn beeps outside, I panic. At the last moment, I yank a cute black minidress off the hanger, then toss in lube and a sexy little black lace negligée.
You know,just in case.
Ten minutes after, Linc casually kisses me hello and takes my bags. It should be no big deal. He’s a gentleman who hasn’t lost the ideals of chivalry. To him, it’s old hat. Easy. Comfortable. But as he stows our stuff on the backseat and pulls away from the curb, I get the same déjà vu, as if we’ve done this a million times over a million lifetimes. We’re just being together like there’salwaysbeen an us.
I guess the best way to explain this feeling is like it’s a favorite movie. Except our story’s been paused for ten years, and now we’ve pressed play again.
He’s got nineties hip-hop bumping, our coffees nestled in the cupholders like adorable his-and-hers caffeine receptacles, cool air blowing through the vents, his clean, warm scent whirring through the car, and we’ve not exchanged a single word.
It’s off-putting. Everything with Linc just feels so normal. Easy. It’s the most I’ve felt myself since the divorce. In maybe a decade.
Naturally, I freeze up, eager to get back to the flirty, sexy version of us that doesn’t involve my heart scratching a broken record.
Daring to find love again…
I glance over my shoulder at the backseat where our bags are, since the chandelier’s in the trunk.
“So, what’d you pack?” I put a little extra cheer in my voice although, mentally, I’m kicking myself for carelessly opening myself up to a conversation that could easily, prematurely slide into condoms and the godforsaken four Ls.
Thankfully, the man is a saint.
“Let’s see, the crystals and chandelier, of course. My laptop, boots, trunks, towels, blankets.” He glances down at the center console, where his phone and keys are tucked under a thin paper packet. “A printed map—”
A laugh spills out of me. “Oh my goodness. You and Priscilla. She’s all about safety first.What if there’s adead spot?” I fake a look of fear.
“Exactly.” He grins, eyes softening as he reaches over and intertwines our fingers, then brings our joined hands to his lips in a gentle kiss. “Can’t be too careful. I’ve got precious cargo to protect.”
See?
The divas would quickly twist his words into some sappy romantic breadcrumb. Not me. My heart holds up a tiny APPLAUSE NOW cue card. Instantly, I feel vindicated. Who wouldn’t want to unleash all kinds of lust on a man who calls youprecious cargo? That’s basically code for,Let’s pullover now and rip open that box in your tote.
I reach for my coffee and take a long, satisfying sip. “Anything else?”
He twists his lips to the side, his eyes trained on the highway. “Oh, yeah, I brought some cards, too.” Casually, he reaches forward, tapping around his dashboard to change the music to a Smooth Grooves playlist, and suddenly, Maxwell’s “Ascension” is seducing me as Linc adds, “Figured while we wait for the glazier to work on the crystals we go on a short hike, maybe rest for lunch, and work in a few hands of Spades.Ifyou’re up for it.”
If I’mupto it?
I swallow, squeezing my thighs together.
Now, roadside quickie, sexy waterfall fellatio, that’s lust. But casually turning on classic foreplay jams and adding in Spades… You don’t just play Spades with any old body. That’s strategic teamwork, whether four players or two. It requires trust and reading each other’s rhythm and intentions. It’s flirty foreplay with repetitious mini battles and outsmarting each other with a smile. Hell, I might as well give him the key to my heart now. What’s the use?Shit, apparently, he knows where I hide the spareanyway.
Oh, I’m onto you, Lincoln Bridges.
He shoots me a hungry stare, easing off the gas like he wants to milk every minute we’re together, simultaneously tugging at my heartstrings and libido, and it’s way,waytoo much to handle.
“Pfft…” I nod, poking my tongue in my cheek, taking a deep breath. “Mm-hmm. Should be fun.” Inside, though, I’m scrambling for a way to change the subject. With a snap, I untangle my hand from his, whip out my iPad from my purse, and say, “Since we’ve got the time, I brought my checklist for Madison Manor.”
And that’s how we spend the first hour of the drive—caffeine-fueled, with the suburban Ellswood skyline fading as we head north on through stop-and-go traffic, all while going over restoration progress updates to mask how utterly turned on I am. Once the chandelier repairs are done, the grand ballroom will only need a few final touches. The reception hall and alcoves are finished with stunning white marble. All six suites? Pretty much done—duh, because Vincent, while theatrical, is efficient as hell with his design process.The terrace lawn, courtyard, and hearth room have been finished for weeks. In fact, ever since Manny and the crew kicked me out of the library to start renovations, they’re some of my go-to spots for “working.” Now that the guys have started the billiard and drawing rooms, and the indoor garden leading into the conservatory, Linc and I have been “running into each other” a lot.
Soon, the tree-lined roads weave into a blur of the densely forested landscape as we approach the foothills.
“Do you think the conservatory is missing something?” I twist in my seat to face Linc, studying the shadows and lines of his beautifully familiar face, his long eyelashes and the fullness of his mouth. The striking gray eyes against rich bronze skin. The light dusting of silver sparkling over his jaw, catching the sunlight.
Ugh, I’ve got it bad.
