Page 49 of Maverick Mogul

“Gas.” I blurt, wrenching the wheel to take the nearest exit.

“We still have over half a tank,” she frowns, puzzled.

“Can’t be too careful!”

I pull up to the gas station and scramble out of the car. At least I can breathe for a minute. And maybe go dunk my head in a bucket of cold water to try and cool off.

Grace climbs out of the car, walking around to where I stand at the pump. She stretches, curves rising with every movement. “Whew. I need something cold. Anything for you?”

Ice. Alcohol.

Condoms.

“A water would be great,” I say instead. “Thanks.”

She walks away in that damned dress, which is torture from every angle. From this one, the fabric hugs her ass, showing every move of her hips. Each time I look her way, those sleeves drive me insane. They look so easy to pull down, exposing her bare shoulder and low neckline. I don’t know about the Renaissance, but Grace in that dress makes me think of barmaids and romps in the hay.

After a couple minutes, I pull the gas nozzle out and hook it back on the pump. Grace saunters back with a bottle of water in one hand. In the other, she holds an ice cream cone, and she tips her head to get the right angle. Time grinds to slow motion. I watch as she gives it a slow, deliberate lick, her tongue pink against melting vanilla.

Dear God, is she trying to torture me?

“They had soft serve!” Grace says happily, handing me a bottle of water. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish it before we get back in the car.”

I grip my hand to uncap the bottle, feeling thirstier than I was a minute ago. Grace briefly considers the cone and then licks the very top.

Dammit.

The cap pops off in my hands, too hard, and a gush of water slops over my hands. I step back and take a drink.Very smooth, Fox.

“Hey, Charlie?” she asks, and when I look over, she’s sort of batting her eyes at me.

I pause, suspicious. Grace isn’t the batting eyelashes kind.

“Yes, Grace?”

She looks at me coyly. “How would you feel about me driving the rest of the way?”

I balk at her. “Do you even have a license?”

“Yes, I have a license,” she says, dropping the act with an exasperated eye-roll. “If you think I haven’t been delivering stuff back and forth between Manhattan and the Bassingers’ Hamptons place for the past two summers…”

What would make me say no to Grace? I can’t think of a single thing.

I drop the keys into her hand. She flashes that smile, and throws her arms around me in a brief hug. “Thank you!” she beams, while I reel from the scent of her perfume. “I’ve always wanted to drive something sporty like this.”

She gets in, revs the engine, and puts on her sunglasses. “Quit lollygagging, Fox,” she calls, revving it again. “This is going to be fun.”

A gorgeous woman at the wheel?

There’s less than an hour till our destination, but at this rate, it’s going to be a long weekend.

* * *

The Ren Faire,it turns out, is a whole thing. I imagined makeshift tents and maybe a food truck or two, but this is on a different level. There are proper buildings, and elaborate canopied stalls, like a sixteenth century Disneyland. We enter through the front gates with turrets and flags, for God’s sake.

“Good morrow, good sir and young lass!” Two guys in costumes approach from near the souvenir wagon. Their bad English accents would make Seb wince.

“Ah, abonnielass!” one of the guys says to Grace. He has a patch of facial hair on his chin, like a triangle pointing downward. “Welcome, fair maiden.”

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