Page 5 of Finding London

“I said, you should close your mouth before you swallow a bug. It’s just mud. It will come off with a little elbow grease. You’re not afraid to get a little dirty, are ya?” His deep voice sends a torrent of chills across my skin.

It takes a split second for me to realize what he’s talking about.That’s right…car wash. Got it.“Oh, I love getting dirty.” I beam before internally cringing. A huge desire to kick my own ass rushes over me.

Enough of this middle-school-starry-eyed-girl syndrome. I’m a smart, attractive twenty-two-year-old college graduate. If I’ve learned anything in the past four years, it is how to get a guy to do what I want. And, right now, I can think of a lot of things I want this particular specimen to do.

I put on my sexy smile. “Hi, I’m London. London Wright. Sorry, momentary brain lapse there. Must be the heat.” I shrug.Why did I give the car wash guy my last name?

“Yeah. It’s hot as a bitch.”

“Perfect day to make some poor college girl clean your filthy truck, huh?” I provide a smirk of my own.

“Exactly my thoughts. Although you’re anything but poor,London Wright.”

I love the way my name rolls off his tongue.

“Maybe not. But it’s not very nice of you.”

His body is turned toward the window, and I catch his name patch on the right side of his chest on his uniform.

“Berkeley,” I address him.

“It’s Loïc. If you didn’t want to wash cars, maybe you shouldn’t have put up the sign. I’m just trying to do my part for the”—he pauses momentarily as he looks back at one of the posters—“puppies.”

“Yeah, well,” I say in my favorite flirty voice, “if you really wanted to help the puppies and me, you could just donate some money and drive through an actual car wash before picking me up for a date later.”

His laughter booms through the truck cab as his head falls to the headrest behind him. “You’re something else, London. Does that sort of line work for you often?”

“Well, to be honest, I usually don’t have to work too hard. But I’ve found, when I see something I want, the best approach is a straightforward one.” I pause. “And to answer your question, yes, my lines always work for me.”

He takes me in, his beautiful blues squinting slightly.

I can’t make out his thoughts, but the silence is uncomfortable, so I continue, “So, I hear a slight accent in your voice. Where are you from?”

“A little bit of everywhere, I guess.”

“From the South?” I question.

“Partly.”

“You’re not giving much away, are ya?”

“Nope,” he answers.

My eyes are drawn to his lips and the way they form a perfect pout after he finishes that word.

“Loïc…that’s a different name. Is there a story behind it?”

“Maybe. Is there a story behind yours?”

“Yes, there is. Would you like to go out later, and I can tell you all about it?” I’m starting to get irritated with his evasiveness.

“Nope,” he says again, putting emphasis on the P sound.

Oh, crap. He must be married.

My eyes dart to his left hand that falls from the open window.

A rumbly chuckle vibrates through his chest as he assesses me while I squint toward his ring finger. “I’m not married, London, and I’m not in a relationship.”

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