Page 29 of Sin Bin

Becauseyoumade it off-limits, like anidiot.

I reach for the car’s radio, only for Zoe to swat at my hand at the lastsecond.

“Jesus,Zo!”

At the sound of my displeasure, she leans back in the passenger’s seat smugly. Instinctively my hand leaves the steering wheel, heading forgroundzero.

“Don’t touch the radio,Beaumont.”

I jerk my chin toward her. “Are you kidding me? This ismycar.”

“Well, yes, but wecouldhave taken my car, but you wanted to be all high-and-mightyand—”

“You drive like shit,” I mutter with a shake ofmyhead.

“Hey! That’snottrue.”

Hell yes, it is. I bite down on my lower lip, debating on whether I should just go for broke. What’s that saying again? If you can’t handle the heat then stay out of the kitchen? Something like that. If Zoe wants to join the trash-talk train, then she needs to kick it with the best of us. “Let me rephrase that,” I tell her. “You drive worse than every senior citizen in the state of Massachusettscombined.”

I sense her watching me. Her nails tap the cell phone impatiently. Then, “I think you’re justjealous.”

A burst of laughter escapes me. “Of your driving skills? Nah, honey. You must have me confused withsomebodyelse.”

“Who in the world would I have you confused with? No one else has ever accused me of driving poorly.” She trails off with a little gasp, and, damn it, but the sound has me looking at heragain. The gasp is sexy, the way her eyes narrow is sexy, the way she thrusts her finger at me in an air-jab is sexy. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you,” she adds, “because of the time I backed your car into a firehydrant.”

Fingers flexing over the steering wheel, Igrunt, “No.”

She doesn’t look away, and I shift uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. Flick the air vents toward me, then fiddle with my ball cap. I’m not mad per se . . . but, Jesus, it’d been a nice car. Then again, seeing her shocked expression when she’d realized what she’d done had immediately soaked up the anger. Zoe had looked so damn cute, with her mouth pursed in an O and her brows nearly touching her hairline as she sputteredinarticulately.

Not that I’d ever offer for her to pull a repeat, but the price tag for fixing the damn thing had been well worth having her fawn all over me forweeks.

“You are,” she whispers now. “You’re totally still mad. It’s been almost twoyears!”

“Zoe, I’mnotmad.”

I tug on my left earlobe, and she points at me. “You are! You’re doing the earlobe-ything.”

“‘Earlobe-y’ is not a word,” I say, struggling to keep my gaze locked on the road when all I want to do is look at her. Damn it, but I’ve missed this between us. The banter, the laughter, the reminder that one glance at Zoe is enough to make my day feelcomplete.

“You’re sidestepping the issue,” she tells me, folding her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe you’re still holding agrudge.”

“Of all the things I could be holding a grudge against you for, the fucking fire hydrant isn’t—” I cut off with a curse. Then again, this is what I was worried about. This constant banter, for me at least, sidelines asforeplay.

Not with any other woman, mind you—but with Zoe? Hell yeah. Put me in a room with her. Don’t even let me touch her, and I’ll be harder than a rock within minutes just thanks to ourconversations.

Zoe casually taps the bill of my Blades baseball hat. “So, you’re holding grudgesagainstme?”

No. Zoe’s not the one to blame here—I am. But there’s no way for me to explain that to her without giving up details, and the details aren’t something I’m willing to share. Not even with her orforher. She’s better off not knowing . . . or maybe it’s thatI’mbetter off pretending that parts of my past don’t exist. My heart clenches with the memories, and for the millionth time in three years I wish that I was as emotionless as the public perceives metobe.

Hell, if Iwasa block of ice, Zoe wouldn’t be getting under my skin right now. I wouldn’t notice the strip of skin above her waistband or the way she smells delicious like fresh citrus. I wouldn’t be tempted to slip my hand around to the back of her neck and drag her over for a kiss. I wouldn’t want to hear all about her year after we went ourseparateways.

“Nothing to say to that?” she promptsdryly.

Maybe it’s because I’m so worked up already, but her question reminds me that we need boundaries. Concrete boundaries.Stop thinking about all the ways you want herinbed.

I make a show of whipping off my hat and tossing it on top of the dashboard. With a sigh of frustration, I drag my hand through my hair and say the words I know will have her wanting to flip me off. “Are you going to talk the rest of the way to NewYorkCity?”

She freezes, and I count the seconds as she meticulously crosses one leg over the other and folds her hands in her lap. Her knuckles are white from gripping herphone.

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