How did I let Brody faze me? I know my beauty, my worth. If anyone has something to say about me or my size, I turn the other cheek—the other ass cheek, that is—and strut away.
Brody’s alluring gaze returns to the road for a moment. He glances back at me, looking me over, testing me. His eyes sear through my jeans. I clutch my southernmost lips together. He can’t see how slick I am. But when my gaze latches onto his, my breath has been filched. I flounder. I’m all incoherent ramblings, and he’s smiling at me.
“Thought ye were mouthy, Justice? We done talking?”
Shoulders squaring, I snap, “I’m a bartender. That’s what I do. What’s so wrong with carrying on a conversation? We’ve been driving for nine hours.”
“Nae. I’ve been driving for nine hours.” Brody takes a thumb to his massive chest.
At an impasse, we toss each other daggers. I’m about to warn him to glance at the road when Brody unclicks his seatbelt. My surroundings shift into focus. His turquoise eyes no longer hold me captive. Outside the passenger side window is a massive brick home with black shutters, white trellis, and tons of character.
I click at the seatbelt, tugging at the restraint.
“Shoot,” I mutter. Okay, double click. I recall how a friend of mine had issues removing the strap while I gave her rides in the past.
The passenger door opens. “Should I carry ya inside, too?”
I blink at Brody, lips mashed together, still a bit miffed.
The oxygen in my lungs fades to oblivion as Brody reaches into the car. The natural scent of him envelops me. His chest glides across my cheek. His hot, steel skin, ripped with muscles, leaves a fury of goosebumps rising over me.
“What are you doing?” I pop at his arms.
“The feck it looks like?”
“Don’t cuss at—”
“I’m not cussing at ye, Justice. I’m helping.”
“I got it!”
I yank at the strap, but Brody moves my hand out of the way, tugging and tugging. All brute force.
“It’s a double click—”
“Ye did this to have me carry ya?” He double clicks at the button to no avail. Attempting to manhandle the damn thing, Brody digs the plastic buckle into my hip.
Brody’s colossal body plasters against me in such a tiny space. My nipples ache, brushing against his chest. I growl, “What is wrong with you?”
The sexiest, most oblivious look graces his face while he focuses on assisting me. The surface of my flesh twitches with desire. “You could help more by listening, Brody.”
My words of wisdom couldn’t come at a worse time. Brody’s caveman antics pay off when the seatbelt clicks. Smuggy Smuggerton flashes a seductive grin while holding out a hand. “Should I still carry ya? The front door is ‘bout a twenty-yard dash. Yer choice.”
“If you don’t move,” I grit out. Only a sliver of room separates me from Brody’s heated skin as I climb out of the car. He stands his ground, and I maneuver around his menacing, brick-like frame.
After I strut past Brody, an intake of oxygen charges through my lungs. This is a small slice of success. It’s as if I’d ventured into a tiny, old, jam-packed theater seconds before the feature presentation and tip-toed past every single filled chair, claiming the final seat dead center. However, I’m victorious. The swoosh of my hips delays for a fraction of a second. Did I noticethe faintest smile on Brody’s face? The tiniest grin ghosts across my own lips, but he won’t benefit from this gorgeous view either.