Page 7 of Take Hold of Me

He extends his right arm, making a muscle. I picture myself ripping that arm right off his body.What am I thinking?I have no right to feel this way. None. At. All.

Before I can respond, my cell rings. Grateful for the reprieve, I pull it out of my pocket, only to see Emilie’s face filling the screen. Zak’s nose is all up in my business. “Holy shit, W. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I haven’t.”

It rings again in my hand.

“Whatever, dude. Answer that call or I will.” He makes a play for my phone.

With that as an incentive, I swat his hand away and accept her call. “Emilie.” Her name comes out like sandpaper. I clear my throat as Zak snickers behind me and try again. “Hi, Emilie.”

“Wills, I am so happy you picked me up.”

The lilt of her French accent grabs me by the balls, while her nearly-there English phrasing brings a smile to my face. Shifting in my seat, I reply, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your text.” Not like I had any intention of ever responding to any of them.

My eyes flick to a different TV screen, where Emilie’s ad has just started to play. Now I’m seeing her as well as talking with her. And Zak is breathing down my neck. Air. I need air.

“That is why I am calling.”

Warning bells ricochet through my mind. I had better tread lightly. Gulping some much-needed oxygen, I reply, “Oh?”

“Oui.” Her enthusiasm jumps through the phone with just this one simple word, uttered in French, causing my stomach to cramp. “As I am now an official Los Angelina, I need to learn how to drive. I have already earned my driver’s permit. Do you think you could help me practice driving for the road test? It would be great to see you again.”

Obviously eavesdropping, Zak elbows me in the ribs. I twist and give him my back, which also ends my torture of seeing her bikini-clad body again. Closing my eyes, a strangled “Uhm” passes my lips. Her excuse for calling is lame. However, the fact that she needs my help tugs at my protective streak. A streak that no longer has a place in my life. No. I can give her the name of a driving school and she can hire them.

“Wills? Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Bon.I thought you had dropped me.”

“Yes. No. Yes. I mean, the call wasn’t dropped, I’m still on the line.” From behind me, Zak snickers and I swivel my head to give him a sharp look.

“Do you think you can help me? I know this is short notice, but I am free tomorrow.” Turning away from Zak’s big ears, I open my mouth to respond in the negative, but she rushes on. “You are the only one I trust here in Los Angeles.”

She trusts me. No good has ever come of that. Yet I’ve seen first-hand how badly some people react to being around celebrities. Picturing Emilie in a vulnerable position, at the hands of a less-than-scrupulous driving instructor, hardens my lips into a straight line.

Words won’t form. I’m shoved from behind, which pitches me forward and causes my mouth to open. “What time?”

Her soft sigh floats through the phone like a delicate kiss. “Merci, Wills. How about eleven? Maybe we can grab lunch afterward.”

In response, warning bells go off in my head. I close my eyes as the real reason she wanted to have a driving lesson surfaces—to nudge the door open and invite herself in.This is a very bad idea.

The woman’svoice on the GPS states, “You have arrived at your destination.”

I place my Jeep Wrangler in park on the street, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers cramp. Banging my head backward against the headrest, I blow a breath through my mouth and unfurl my hands. I haven’t seen Emilie since… No, I don’t want to revisit the funerals of my two partners again. I was right.This is a terrible idea.

I can recommend a driving school.

Picturing Emilie with a shady instructor drooling all over her in a locked vehicle keeps my ass rooted to the seat.

While my internal debate rages, the front door opens and Emilie strides out of her house. My body seizes. She’s wearing what she must consider “driving attire”—tight jeans and a pink t-shirt molded over her chest—complete with brown leather driving gloves. Light bounces off her blonde hair, making her appear as if she has a halo. I don’t belong in the company of an angel.

An urgent desire to flee overtakes me. My eyes scan her empty street in Beverly Hills that ends in a cul-de-sac in about 500 yards, but it’s too late to make an escape. She’s seen me. And I agreed to do this. Crap. Placing sunglasses over my eyes, I foist myself out of the Jeep.One driving lesson and out. I’ll do a thorough screening of all the instructors at the local driving schools and leave her in good hands. Not mine.

Meeting her midway up the bluestone walkway to a Spanish-style house that suits this European vision perfectly, I close my eyes behind the dark lenses for a moment. Clearing my throat, I offer a truthful lie, “Good to see you, Emilie.”

She smiles, her brownish-green eyes sparkling. Holding out her arms, she utters, “Wills,” with her sexy French accent. All of my muscles lose their tension as she pulls me to her and kisses both of my cheeks. I refuse to acknowledge the sizzle where her lips meet my skin, instead focusing on the fact she asked me to help her achieve a goal. She needs me to teach her how to drive. I can do that. One lesson.Nothing more.

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