An uncertain smile and what can only be described as a confused look takes over his features. It’s out of place on such a confident man. But it diffuses just as quickly as it came, replaced again by the signature smirk.
“Come on, Lizzie. I’ll take you through to my office so we can do the interview, and then I’ll show you around the workshop if you’d like.”
Lizzie? He puts his hand on my lower back to guide me through the workshop to his office. The contact sends fireworks through my body. Sparks spread like tree branches from the point where his hand rests, diffusing any thoughts of questioning him about my name. As if my life is not a big enough mess, I realise I’m in trouble when it comes to Noah Hamilton. He’s a distraction I don’t need, and I know I’m going to have to fight with my own body, tooth and nail, to behave.
What I really struggle to comprehend is why I don’t find his strong approach threatening, especially with Mac’s behaviour being the way it is. But I don’t.
If any other man had approached me in the same manner, I would’ve been appalled. Maybe they would’ve gotten a slap across the face. I certainly would have given them a mouthful. So why not him?
It’s that bloody book. I shrug the episode off and put on my big girl knickers and professional face as I enter Noah’s office.
I ENTER MY office with the gorgeous Lizzie. My heart thuds hard in my chest.
What in the hell was that, apart from inappropriate behaviour and a court case waiting to happen?
I’m pretty sure my brain has fucked off. I’ve never, and I mean never, reacted to any woman like that. I’m all for women’s rights and all that namby-pamby shit. Why couldn’t I stop myself? I’ve never felt a draw like it. It’s almost primal.
There’s no mistaking her body’s reaction to me, a sexy pink tinge creeping up her cheeks, her pupils dilated. I’m desperate to slide my hand around her waist and glide down between her legs. My fingers itch in anticipation and I rub them down my thighs to try to eradicate the sensation. I need to get a grip. On the way past my desk, I grab a cricket bat and ball from the spare seat, and place them in the corner of the room.
“Take a seat.” I gesture towards the chair I’ve just cleared.
“You play cricket?” She looks surprised.
“Yeah, out in the car park. It’s more of a toss around on weekends because the other businesses aren’t in. It loosens the muscles when you’ve been under a hood all day.”
“Is that not a little crazy?” She glances around at all the glass, her eyes wide.
“I’ll admit we’ve smashed the windows a few times.” I give her a mischievous grin. “On the plus side, I now have an awesome relationship with the local glazier who keeps the right size panels in stock, just in case.”
This makes her laugh a little. The sweet sound courses through my body and shoots straight to my cock, which twitches in its confines, begging to be set free.
As she sits down, I study her. She’s delicate or maybe wounded. There’s sadness surrounding her, and her grey eyes are dull, no spark in them whatsoever. Someone has sucked the life right out of her, and fuck me if I don’t want to kill the bastard who did it. I can guess she’s been fucked over by a boyfriend or husband. Perhaps something along the lines of catching him shagging her best friend. That’s the usual MO for arseholes like me.
At least I never promise anything; it only causes hassle in the long run. I’m upfront with my expectations. One night, and no one gets hurt. But for some reason an overwhelming need to protect her stirs in me. I shake my head, the movement barely perceptible.
I’m not that guy.
It’s probably some bloke like me she needs protecting from.
My cock strains hard against my button-fly, no doubt leaving a nice imprint. It’s excruciating, and taking all I have not to hiss through the pain. I try to shift inconspicuously, so I don’t draw attention to my situation.
Lizzie gazes at me with a concerned expression on her face, her head tilted to one side. “Are you okay? You look like you’re uncomfortable.”
It’s obvious my inconspicuous shifting wasn’t very inconspicuous. Shit. I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, and the heat of embarrassment rises on my face. What the fuck? I don’t think I’ve blushed since I was sixteen and got caught wanking. There are some things a mum should never see.
I clear my throat. “Er, yeah. I’m fine. This seat’s just a little uncomfortable, that’s all. I keep meaning to order a new chair. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
A flicker of disbelief passes through her eyes. “Oh, okay. Well, do you want to move the interview to another room, or perhaps get another chair?” Her tone remains neutral, but her eyes are alight with amusement, those golden flecks finally flaring like sunrays. It’s a sight to behold.
“No, no, I’ll be fine. So, Ms. Ryder, what do you want to know?”
My business tone shuts the light off in her eyes, and I could kick myself. I only used it to hide the awkwardness I’m not used to feeling. Her professional persona slides into place as well, sort of like a curtain call. A little piece of me feels almost like it’s died with the loss. I try to shake the feeling as Lizzie begins to speak.
“I hope you don’t mind if I record the interview, it just makes things easier.” Her tone has hardened and her eyes are flat again, giving no indication as to what’s going on inside her head.
“No, I don’t mind in the slightest. I sort of expected it. Personally, I wouldn’t know where to start with one of those things,” and I wave a hand towards her Dictaphone, “but fill your boots.”
“When I did my research on you, I noticed you seemed to be a bit of a technophobe. You have no online presence at all.” Her eyes flick to mine, and then back down to the task of setting up the device.
I resist the urge to shift in my seat again, uncomfortable for different reasons. I don’t like people looking into my personal shit. You never know what they might find, and some things I prefer to keep private. Like my previous occupation. Lizzie glances at me with curiosity. I take in her expression, pleased when I read in her face it’s the technology thing she can’t fathom, not me.
With silent relief, I answer her unspoken question. “Yeah, I’m no good with computers, just not my thing. Every time I touch one, something goes wrong. So I just leave well enough alone.”
Lizzie continues with her interview. I go through details of my business from start-up to now, my love for cars, why I specialise in American muscle, my favourite car, and how I learnt my trade. For the most part, I manage to avoid answering anything with substance, just enough so she thinks she has an answer.
She’s good at her job though, thorough and enthusiastic, and a little fire comes back to her eyes. It’s obvious she loves what she does, and it’s a pleasure to spectate. As she moves through the interview, I find my thoughts shifting to how I’m going to see her again. I feel like I’m back in high school, but there’s just the two of us, so I can’t get someone to pull the ‘my mate fancies your mate’ tactic.
I’m lost in thought when her silken voice pulls me back to the here and now. “Noah?”
My gaze flicks to her patiently waiting face. “Sorry, what was the question?”
A shy smile tugs at the corners of her lips and pulls at something in my chest.
“I was asking about your motorbike. What is it? I don’t know much about them, and yours, well, let’s just say it’s gorgeous.”
I give her my full megawatt smile. She’s asked about my bike, and I fucking love my bike. “She’s a Ducati Streetfighter, goes zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds, and a top speed of a hundred and fifty-four miles per hour. She’s not a heavyweight, but she still needs muscle to handle her.”