Page 8 of Master Debater

A splat of water hit the top of my head, my arm, my nose. “It’s starting to rain.”

“Astute observation, Mr. Holmes,” Willa snarked. “All the more reason to sit here and drink what’s left of my wine.”

When I carried the broken bottle to the nearby trash can and dumped it in, I let the scowl she fired at me bounce right off. Bracing my hand under the soggy, wine-soaked bottom, I lifted that bag, along with the one filled with fruit, and placed them on the floor in the backseat of my car.

Willa stood, the other bag in her arms. I moved to take it, but she swiveled it out of my reach, staring upward as the raindrops picked up speed.

“What? Are you scared to get in the car with me? If that’s the case…” I wracked my brain for a solution. “I’ll get you into a nearby shop, call an Uber, and drop your groceries at home.”

“No, that’s not it. I just had a plan.”

“Plans change.”

“Yes, I know, and I’m not a fan.”

Finally, Willa relented, allowing me to place the last bag with the others. I opened the passenger door for her and helped her inside, then rushed around, climbed in the driver’s seat, and pulled onto the road.

At the next red light, my eyes strayed to Willa’s legs. Her gauzy skirt landed at mid-thigh, the filmy fabric swishing across her skin in a way that made me want to follow its lead. The tucked-in waist emphasized the flare of her hips and breasts, and I couldn’t quite decide which part of her I wanted to get my hands on first.

Not that I was going to follow through, but my shower scenarios had been lacking lately. I could use a few more to add to my repertoire.

Willa’s mouth parted as she studied the hand I had on the gear shifter, and I gripped it tighter, rolling the smooth knob against my palm. “So? How are you settling in?”

Long lashes and half-lidded eyes with a dusting of glittery makeup lifted to my face, and I readjusted in my seat. That shower scenario needed to be sooner rather than later. “Huh? Oh. Just fine.”

“Job?”

“Yes,” she said, and I accelerated through the intersection, fast enough her back hit the chair and a tiny gasp came out.

“Care to expand on that?”

“What do you do?” Turning the conversation back on me. Interesting. “It must be something fancy for you to afford a car like this.” Her fingertips drifted across the dashboard, and I’d never been jealous of my Porsche before—usually it provoked envy from others, not the other way around.

“I’m a lawyer. I started my own firm, and plan to be the top one in Boston in the very near future.”

“Impressive. Explains the nice suit too.”

I tugged on the lapels. “But not how nicely I fill it out, am I right?”

She laughed. A little too hard. Then the fingers that had been drifting over the dashboard moved to the hand I had on the shifter. She rested them there, and my pulse picked up speed, all my blood rushing to that one spot. “Can I confess something?”

My throat went bone dry. “Go for it.”

She leaned in until her breasts grazed my upper arm. “I know I made fun of your ridiculous ride, but the buttery soft seats that hug you just right, the way it accelerates, and the whole gear shift thing? I kind of want to have sex with this car.”

Fuck. Me.

A nervous laugh followed, and she sat back, the warmth of her body and hand gone. “So many men are obsessed with their vehicles, the horsepower number, and whether their engine is V-shaped or whatever. I always thought the whole status symbol thing was silly. This is the first time I’ve kind of understood it.”

My eyes locked onto hers, and desire claimed my lungs as her throat worked a swallow. If I didn’t pull myself together, I’d ask her if she’d like to knock out part of her sentence and have sex in this car. “Fair warning, if you ask to drive it, I’ll have to give you my spiel.”

“Your spiel?”

“It boils down to how I’d let my buddies fuck my girlfriend before I’d let anyone else drive my car.”

Her eyebrows arched at the bold statement—one I’d voiced and stood by, for the record. “Well. That’s…” She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, and speaking of driving, she was driving me fucking crazy. “Does she live around here? Or in Boston, anyway?”

“My car?”

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