Page 55 of Just a Friend for the Lion
And,sniff, oh my God—it’s him.
That spicy, musky scent I recognize as his.Carter.
God, he’s everywhere.
The front of Lion’s Limousines is way bigger than I expected.
I mean, I knew Carter was building some kindof swanky garage-slash-car-limo-Shifter-guy-hangout-thing, but this place is huge.
Concrete and glass, black metal beams, and a sleek-ass sign out front that readsLion Limousines & Livery Service: Performance, Protection, Prestige.
Three P’s.
Go figure.
Inside is all polished floors, chrome accents, and car-scented testosterone.
There’s even a refreshment station, like this is a goddamn spa and not a garage.
The espresso machine looks more expensive than my car.
And standing behind the front desk?
Well, she’s everything I’m not right now.
Tall, curvy in a pencil-skirt-and-heels way.
Not a speck of grease or a drop of tomato sauce in sight.
Her glossy brown hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail, and her cherry-red lips curve in something between a smirk and a snarl as she looks me up and down.
Like I tracked in something unsavory.
Spoiler alert: that something is probably flour and dried cheese fromthis afternoon’s prep.
“Can I help you?” she asks, and her voice is kinda sharp.
Like she keeps it honed for slicing people just like me.
“I’m here to see Carter Leone,” I say, squaring my shoulders even though I feel wildly underdressed.
Not for a pizza kitchen.
But definitely for this garage.
Whatever it is he’s doing, he must have put a lot of money into this place. Which means he has a lot of money.
So, he’s rich.
And of course, he didn’t tell me.
A lie? An omission?
I am decidedly not rich.
This is just another mark against us, I suppose.
Her eyes narrow as she gives me another once-over.
