Page 42 of Plunge

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Fletcher

THISTLE WALKS AHEAD of me toward her car while I try to calm down my raging hard-on. She didn’t come here for sex, I remind myself. Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure how we ended up here at all.

We glide into the valet parking for the auto show and I can’t help but feel like a damn celebrity when people start drooling over themselves to attend to the Gullwing. Thistle asks to see the manager before she turns over the keys, asking him about his experience driving classic cars.

I plant a kiss on top of her head. “It’s going to be ok, babe. These folks are car people. It’s not like asking Larry to drive it.”

She chews on her lip for a minute but then nods, and the valets all applaud as their boss slides inside. He revs the engine once and Thistle glares, but he drives away and I guide Thistle toward the entrance.

We spend the day playing pretend, living out some fantasy where we married each other, got rich, and go examine luxury cars for something to do in our leisure time. I buy us VIP tickets, and we sip champagne while we talk to the car owners.

I keep my hand around her waist, let it dip so my fingers caress her ass. I’m so turned on listening to her talk about horsepower and torque. I forgot that Thistle knew all that stuff, but she was my girlfriend, after all. And she liked to go fast, too.

“Doesn’t this increase the drag,” she asks, gesturing at an after-market roof ridge some turd has added to an orange Charger. I grin as his face falls. He was thinking she was just over here to ask about the chrome and the tire lights he put on.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t really drive it for the speed.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

Thistle clucks her tongue. “Pity,” she says, and pivots on her heel.

I tug her into an alcove, my heart racing as I look into her eyes. Has she always been this sexy or am I just drunk on the drama of the past few days? I can see the lights of the showroom reflected in her blue eyes and I wrap a hand in her ponytail, pulling her in for a kiss.

She moans, a small sound, as she adjusts her weight so she’s leaning against my chest. I can smell her arousal, and I need to have her. Now.

I pull back and look around, desperate to get out of here and strip her out of that dress. Or just flip up the skirt. I haven’t decided yet.

“Thistle?” A male voice with an accent comes floating around the corner. “I thought that was you! How lovely to see you here!”

Thistle jumps back from me like she’s been electrocuted and turns toward the voice. I reach down to adjust my pants before turning to see a middle-aged guy in a suit.

“Sebastian,” Thistle says, her face breaking into a smile. “It’s been so long.” I stiffen when she hugs him and then he squeezes her hands.

“Too long,” he says and then looks at me. “And who have we here?”

“This is Fletcher Crawford,” she says, gesturing at me. “He’s my—“

“I’m her husband,” I say, before she can blurt anything that’s bound to piss me off. His eyes immediately go to her hand, which doesn’t have a ring, of course, because our marriage is just supposed to be on paper.

She makes a face at me and I shrug. The old guy breaks into a smile and reaches for my hands, shaking them both together in his hands.

“How wonderful! Wonderful!” He says, beaming. I have no idea why I reacted that way. I wasn’t even a jealous guy when we were together. I figure it’s because we haven’t discussed what all this means, and I’m always antsy when I don’t know what’s going on.

“Fletcher, Sebastian is who sold me the Gullwing,” Thistle says and he holds his hand to his heart.

“What a thing to let go,” he says. “Do you cherish her?”

“Hell yeah,” I say. “We drove it here today! She’s a beaut.”

Thistle clears her throat. “Sebastian, what brings you here? I hadn’t heard anything about you since…well since I was in Germany.”

He waves a hand. “That was bad time in my life,” he says. “I’m here with a new opportunity. A fresh start, isn’t that what you Americans say?”

He asks if we want to go sit and Thistle nods. They make small talk about old business while I trail behind, feeling like a jackass.

The old guy seems very excited to see her, and I don’t like it. I should calm my ass down. I remind myself that this is a networking opportunity for her, but my dick has been half hard ever since she got in her car with me this morning. We sit and he explains that he’s with some company now that makes engine parts.

“You’ll like this part,” he says. “It’s named for Beatrix Shilling, the—

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