Page 14 of Beautiful Rush
She shrugged. “I worked until nine,” she said by way of explanation.
“Do you always work that late?”
“I’m trying to make up for the hours I missed.” She didn’t supply the information, but I guessed she was talking about her time in Miami. I’d love to ask her about it, but I’d save those questions for another day. “Besides, I love being at the garage.”
“What do you love about it?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“It’s noisy, it smells like motor oil and testosterone, and I work with men who make an honest living and enjoy the simple things in life. Like a comfortable couch, a cold beer, and a ballgame.”
An honest living. In other words, the opposite of her father’s lifestyle. “How’s Tate treating you?”
She laughed. “Tate is Tate. He’s not a big talker, but he’s a good teacher and even though he still grumbles about hiring a woman, I think he secretly likes me. At least, that’s what I choose to believe.”
She pulled the bowl of grapes into her lap, plucked one from the stem and held it in front of my mouth. “Open up,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to peel it for me?”
“Who does that? Who peels a grape?”
I opened my mouth and she fed me a grape. I’d expected it to be warm and juicy, not fucking frozen.
She smirked. “I put them in the freezer.”
“Who puts grapes in the freezer?”
“Me.”
I propped my booted feet on the coffee table, my fingers laced behind my head and she sat cross-legged with her back against the armrest. We watched the movie like that, with her leaning forward to feed me sweet frozen grapes, my mouth opening to accept the offering from her fingers, as if this was perfectly natural.
She nudged my thigh with her foot. “On Friday night…did you know it was me in the Charger?”
She was referring to the street race. I knew it was her. I recognized the car first and then saw her behind the wheel. “I knew it was you.”
I pulled her feet into my lap and held her left foot in both hands, kneading the ball of her foot. Jesus. First, I had danced with her in the kitchen and now I was massaging her feet. What next? Manicures and pedicures? She moaned then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound as if it embarrassed her. It was cute. I pressed my thumbs deep into the arch, my gaze focused on her indigo-blue painted toenails until she forgot about being embarrassed. Her moans and whimpers and repeated ‘oh my gods’ encouraged me to make this the best damn foot massage she’d ever had.
“I used to street race. Back in high school.” I gave my attention to the right foot that had been neglected while I’d worked on the left one. “It wasn’t as organized as your race. Just a bunch of assholes driving shitty cars and meeting up to race on a strip of road. Playing chicken used to be my favorite game. I would wait until the last possible second before swerving out of the way of an oncoming truck or car.”
“Why?” Her voice was breathy, her eyelids at half-mast. My dick twitched, begging for attention but I ignored it.
“I used to think it made me feel more alive,” I said. “But I was just a dumb shit.”
“Did you have a death wish?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. I don’t,” she said, and I heard the honesty in her voice. “I guess I do it for the same reasons you did. What made you want to become a cop?”
“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to make a difference in the world? That I’m a crusader of justice?” As corny as that sounded, it was a big part of the reason why I ended up becoming a cop.
She closed one eye and tilted her head, considering it. “Actually, I do believe that. But it sounds like a recruiting poster. I’m sure your story is far more interesting than that.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re not exactly Captain America.”
“I should be offended.” I wasn’t. That was my least favorite superhero.
She laughed. “My brothers knew you in high school. They were surprised you became a cop.”
