Page 53 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I place my palm in his, and lower myself into the car, and shut the door.
“Ready to go?” the driver asks, his voice quiet and soft and thickly accented.
No, is the thought that runs through my head.
“Yes, thank you,” Franco murmurs.
With a few taps of the cell phone in the hands-free holder suctioned to the windshield, the driver begins the journey; I recognize the address as being a street in the subdivision near my condo complex—the street in question is a lovely, sleepy, quiet little avenue, tree-lined, with small, tidy houses on large lots.
We’re going to Franco’s house.
My eyes meet his, and my heart squeezes, flutters, does flips to match the somersaults in my stomach, and the tremble of my hands.
Chapter 9
It’s a slow, silent drive from James’s house. The driver has the radio on very low, playing wailing, skirling, toe-tapping Indian music at odds with the tension in the car between Franco and me. The driver’s head bobs in funny little sideways shakes in time with the rhythm, and he mutters something under his breath in his language, as if he’s singing lyrics to the song that aren’t present in the radio version.
There are about six inches of space on the seat between Franco and me; we’re both buckled in, my purse on my knees, his hands loose on his thighs. I want to meet his eyes, but I’m scared; if I look at him, I’ll say something, and I’m not sure what that would be. So I keep my eyes on his hands, noticing little scars here and there hidden among the lines and fine hairs. They are strong hands, powerful but careful, and skilled and gentle.
I have a split-second image rushing through my head: his hand stutters down my hips, clutching at my thighs. I blink, shake my head to clear the image, but the damage is done. My stomach clenches, and my thighs press together. I drag my eyes away from his hands, because no part of him is safe to look at right now.
Even his nose is a danger zone: I remember the way it felt, nuzzling against my skin as his tongue lapped at my core.
I feel my nipples harden, and I notice his eyes sliding sideways, flicking down to my breasts, and lingering there.
I glance out the window to distract myself and see that we’re passing my condo complex, which means we’re less than five minutes from his place. We turn right into a subdivision, and the trees arch overhead, obscuring the waning half-moon and the few twinkling stars visible in the Chicago suburbs. A left turn, and then a right, and the street we’re on now is narrow and paved in old, uneven cobblestones. The houses here are older, well-kept ranches and bungalows, and the trees lining the street are thick, venerable old oaks with wide-spreading branches and broad leaves and gnarled roots that threaten to ruck the sidewalks out of true.
The driver pulls into a narrow driveway in front of a low-roofed ranch with gray siding and white trim, a bright crimson door, and neat, simple landscaping consisting mostly of box shrubs. There’s a picture window to the right of the front door with a flower box underneath, planted with a neat line of red geraniums. Even from the outside, I can see Franco’s handiwork everywhere, and his penchant for neatness and order. The grass is neatly mowed and edged and fertilized, verdant and green, the landscaping beds cleanly mulched and clearly defined. There’s a detached garage beside and behind the house a ways, with Franco’s truck sitting out in front of it, and I can see a hint of the backyard.
“Here you are,” the driver says, putting the Kia into park. “Thank you, and please to enjoy your evening.” He draws the last word into three distinct syllables: EVE-en-ing.
“Thanks, you too,” Franco replies, exiting on his side.
I get out on my side and follow Franco up the driveway; he has his phone out, tapping to rate the driver and apply a tip, and then the device goes back into his rear pocket and he’s digging out his keys. He bypasses the front door in favor of the side, unlocking it and pushing it open, letting me in first. The side door leads directly into the kitchen, which is small but feels spacious, with dark floors and light cabinets, concrete countertops and stainless steel appliances. The light over the stove is on, shedding a low, inviting yellow glow. After Franco closes the door behind him, he relocks it out of habit, tossing his keys onto the nearby counter.
There’s an abrupt silence following the initial jangle of his keys on the counter.
It’s cool in his house; my skin pebbles, and my nipples harden further into diamond points. Or…maybe it’s just because I’m alone with Franco in his home.
