Monica Murphy - Torn

“Need any help?” I ask, keeping my voice low when I grab hold of her elbow before she can escape me again.

She flashes me a smile. “I’ve got this, sweetheart. You go have fun.”

I release my hold on her, rolling my eyes as I turn to Gage. He’s watching me; his gaze sweeps over me, slow and easy, and just like that arousal trickles through my blood, heating my skin. My aunt is forgotten, the bakery, everything else, and it’s just me and him, standing in front of the door, the spot where just last night he had me pressed against the cold glass while he kissed me senseless.

“So I’m your Boy Toy?” he asks, his voice a husky murmur that sends chills down my spine.

“If the shoe fits,” I tease, pleased when he opens the door for me like a gentleman should. He has manners. This is a plus.

“I have no problem with it,” he teases back, his eyes twinkling. “I know you weren’t complaining last night.”

Glaring at him, I tilt my head to my thankfully still oblivious aunt. “Keep your voice down.”

His expression switches to serious. “Sorry. Forgot myself.”

I understand. I think we both forget ourselves when we’re in each other’s presence. Easy to do, considering the obvious chemistry sparkling between us.

This is going to be a long night.

Gage

SHE’S SO FUCKING gorgeous I can’t get over it. All that long, tumbling blonde hair caught up in a high ponytail, showing off the pretty, irresistible curve of her neck. The neck I licked and nibbled last night, making her groan with pleasure, her hands clutching me tight . . .

Blowing out a harsh breath, I lead her outside toward where my car is parked at the curb. She stops short when she sees it, her wide-eyed gaze meeting mine. “ That’s your car?”

I nod, hitting the keyless remote in my hand so the doors unlock. “Yeah, that’s my baby.” I open the door to my newest purchase—a sleek, pearl-white Maserati Ghibli—and as I guide her into her seat, I can’t help but like the way she looks settled inside my car.

I like the way she looks everywhere, as long as she’s with me, if I’m being truthful.

What the ever-loving fuck?

Yeah. I’ve lost my mind. One night with a woman and I’m addicted. I think I want her even more because she’s so damn indifferent.

“Your baby?” she asks me pointedly when I slide into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel. “This is a Ghibli.”

Okay. I’m fucking impressed. Most women don’t give a shit about cars. Or they’ll be able to recognize a brand but not the model. “You’re right. I have a thing for cars. I like to collect them,” I admit, starting the vehicle. It roars to life, the engine purring a low, sexy rumble that seems to vibrate throughout the entire interior.

I wonder if Marina would let me bang her in the back seat. That would make this a more than memorable date.

“I love Maserati. My dad has owned a few himself. He used to collect cars,” she admits, her voice wistful. “Not so much the last few years since he really doesn’t have the time. Or the money.”

Guilt assuages me at the money reference. But I can’t help but be excited by the discovery that I have something in common with Scott Knight. “How many cars does he have?”

“Too many for me to count.” She laughs and shakes her head, her hair rubbing against the soft Italian cream-colored leather. “He had an entire shop built to store them all. Most of them are vintage American classics mixed with a few Italian vehicles—homage to my mother’s family.”

“Nice.” I pull out into traffic, shifting the car into gear as I slow down, and turn right. “I have a garage filled with the cars I’ve collected over the years. I started collecting when I was twenty-one.”

“Really? How many do you have?”

I’m sort of blown away that we’re having a normal conversation like normal people. No snarky remarks or rude comments. And that we actually have something in common—it’s one of my favorite things to talk about, fast and expensive cars. “I have some in storage too. I think—yeah, I have close to one hundred cars in my collection so far.”

“Wow. I know my dad had more than one hundred at one point, but I’m afraid he’s sold quite a few of them.” She nibbles on her lower lip, looking worried. “It makes him sad to lose them, but it needed to be done.”

I can’t imagine having to sell even one of my cars because times were tough. I’d do it if I had to but . . . I wouldn’t want to. I feel for her father.

I also feel like an asshole. I want to buy property from her father for a steal, so I can turn it around and make a profit. Plus, I’m dating his daughter in the hopes I can get closer to him.

Though, really I like her. A lot. I’m not with her just so I can have an in with Scott Knight. I’m with Marina because I want to be.

“I’d love to see what remains of his collection some time.” I would. Not just because I could get an in with him, but I’m genuinely interested. What if he has my dream car in his shop? Not that I have a particular car I’m yearning for, but hey, it could happen.

“Um, yeah.” She fidgets in her seat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “You know I still live at home, right?”

I’m shocked. I hadn’t a clue. “You do? How old are you?”

She glares at me. Uh oh. Here we go, right into “let’s-see-how-out-of-hand-we-can-get-before-we-start-calling-each-other-names.” “I’m twenty-three,” she sniffs, all haughty Italian princess-like. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised. I glance at her to find she looks surprised too. “I thought you were older.”

“How much older?” Shit, do I look old? I’m tempted to check myself out in the rearview mirror, but I resist the urge.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs, glances out the window. “Early thirties?”

“You like older men?” I tease.

She turns to glare at me again. “Not at all. I usually date men more my age.” Her comment is pointed. Now she’s really making me feel like a dirty, lecherous old man.

“I’m not even thirty,” I mutter, shaking my head. Maybe we should quit talking. I never know what’s going on in Marina’s head. Our banter feels pretty comfortable at the moment, but we could slip into argument mode in a hot second. And I don’t want us fighting before we get to the restaurant. Ivy will pick up on the tension rumbling between us and want to know what’s going on. So would Archer probably, though he’s pretty damn oblivious when it comes to that stuff.

Marina remains quiet, too; her hands curled in her lap, her head turned away, so she can stare out the window and watch the passing scenery. So I remain silent, sneaking the occasional glance at her hair, loving the multiple shades of blonde and brown mixed, knowing without a doubt that she’s a natural blonde, now that I’ve seen her naked.

Thinking of her naked sends my thoughts into other directions. Dangerous, dirty, and unnecessary directions that I shouldn’t be focusing on at the moment. Thinking of the two of us together leaves me feeling needy. Vulnerable.

Hungry. Starving, more like it. All for her.

Fuck.

“Can I ask you a question?” I gotta break the tension and talk about something else before I lose it and attack her.

She turns to look at me. “Go for it,” she says warily.

“You’re a blonde.”

A smile teases the corner of her lips. “That’s not a question.”

“I thought Italians weren’t normally blonde,” I say lamely, feeling like a jackass. I’m trying to make conversation, and I feel like an idiot. This woman just makes me so damn . . . nervous. I can’t explain it.