Chewing on my lower lip, I stared at the Maybach for more time than I had before speed-walking across the enormous property to find Gavin where I’d last seen him. The pool. He was still swimming laps when I got there, wearing nothing but a teeny tiny pair of briefs. His huge arms cut giant swaths through the crystal blue water with each stroke.
“What are you still doing here?”
Lost in the reverie of my panicked thoughts, I’d totally missed that Gavin had climbed out of the pool. He towered above me, dripping all over the stone walkway.
“Um, are you supposed to submerge that thing in water for long periods of time?” I asked, pointing at his ankle monitor. “Because . . .”
“It’s waterproof.”
“Like, shower waterproof or . . . swim-around-in-your-Olympic-sized-pool waterproof?”
Gavin pushed wet hair out of his face. “I’ve worn it while falling asleep in the bath. It’s fine. If it malfunctioned, it’d show up as me fucking with it and the cops would rock up to my gate.”
“Oh.” I stared at it, paranoid. “Are you—”
“What do you want?”
“God, sorry. I just wanted to tell you that I’m about to take the Maybach to get serviced.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“Look, I’m worried about driving it. What if I get in a wreck?”
“I have insurance,” he said, looking at me oddly. “And why would you get in a wreck?”
“Because I’ve never driven a Maybach.”
“It’s just a car. You drove the Altima without a problem, other than apparently pumping molasses into it, if I go by how long you take to come back whenever I send you to do something.”
I ground my teeth together. “The Altima is one thing. I’m just not the most experienced driver, and—”
“You have a license. You told me you could drive.”
“Look, I’m a born-and-raised New Yorker. We don’t really drive. I can get from Point A to Point B, and you’re—”
“So, you’re saying I should hire someone who doesn’t piss themselves at the thought of driving.” At my silence, Gavin ran a hand through his wet hair while pinning me with an impatient death stare. “Right? That’s what you’re saying?”
“No,” I spat out, still gritting my teeth. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good. Then get it done. And I need some grooming.” Gavin squeezed water out of his hair. “Get a barber to come around.”
“Who—”
“Just find someone.”
We stared at each other, and I wondered if my visible panic was causing me to lose every ounce of credibility I’d struggled to gain in the past few days. Not that I’d gained much. I’d been late every morning, and he’d been giving me his icy glares ever since. I knew he’d ride my ass even harder if he knew the thought of making decisions about the types of people who would enter his house and touch anything from his grass to his hair was giving me an ulcer.
But considering the hostility in his gaze the longer I kept him from his swim, it seemed like a bad time to double-check. Again.
“Okay. I’ll be back.”
Gavin turned away with a mutter, and I retreated to the garage. With no small amount of trepidation, I grabbed the keys to the Maybach and slipped inside. Despite the higher mileage, the interior still smelled like leather. I was almost certain I was the first person to drive it since it’d last been detailed, which meant he had three vehicles he barely drove. Did he just buy this stuff because it was in the Professional-Athlete-and-Newly-Minted-Millionaire manual? Considering he acted like his every belonging was a huge inconvenience, I suspected he had.
I drove to Bianchi’s Imports & Auto Care at a speed of fifteen miles per hour. It was good to see that even amid the land of rich and famous, people were not too hoity-toity to flip me off. No less than four people snarled at me through their windows. I couldn’t hear the cursing, but it was easy enough to read their lips. I did us both the favor of not responding. And when I say “both” I’m referring to me and the poor car. It was a beautiful machine and I was completely unworthy when it came to driving it.
It was almost one in the afternoon once I’d crawled my way through the traffic, and Bianchi’s was packed with import cars. I’d expected a sleek shop with marble floors and mechanics in designer uniforms, so tattooed guys and girls with grease-stained clothes were a welcome sight.
Normal people. My people.
I felt unselfconscious as I staggered into the office with windblown hair, an unkempt button-down—I’d shoved up the sleeves and undone the top couple of buttons hours ago—and an undershirt that was fairly saturated with sweat.
“Hey, I called earlier about the three vehicles?”
“Yeah, I remember you.” The guy sitting behind the front desk was gorgeous. Light brown hair and pale green eyes. Dreamboat material. “You still bringing in the others?”