In the end, I never use the safe word. In the end, we stay as late as everyone else. In the end, he walks us to the car around nine o’clock at night, and we’re both a bit buzzed from booze and barbeque—though I can’t actually recall Trace drinking after the few beers he had at the beginning of the party.

Trace.

Why on earth am I calling him that now? When did he go from Buzz to Trace?

Brain addled by the sun—and the cute man helping me into his ridiculously flashy sports car—I accidentally smile up at him as he closes the passenger side door for me.

Whoops.

The engine roars to life.

We ride quietly to the front of the property then to the exit in companionable silence; he doesn’t say anything and I don’t feel the need, rolling the window down and letting the breeze whip through my hair.

Head back against the headrest, I tilt it so I can watch his profile as he drives, face illuminated by oncoming traffic and the occasional streetlight.

“Today was fun.” Oddly enough, I had a wonderful time.

“It was.” He glances over. “Thanks for coming.”

This gives me pause. Did he manipulate me into coming? Because it felt like a date, although we both know it wasn’t, but it wasn’t blackmail either? I mean, let’s be honest, I could have stayed home. He didn’t have to bring me, and I would have gone months and months, if not years, without seeing Marlon Daymon again. Bumping into him at the fundraiser was a fluke.

So did I actually want to stay home? Not really.

Was I curious about this person enough to join him for the day? Absolutely.

And I proved myself right; there is more to Trace “Buzz” Wallace than meets the eye—probably more to him than anyone gives him credit for. He is not just a pretty face with a talented body.

He is funny—so ridiculously funny—and handsome and nice.

I was not expecting him to be nice…

I was expecting a sarcastic, entitled asshole, and now that I know for a fact he’s not, I wish I didn’t. I want to go back to the place where I put him in a box, on the shelf, to sit, stereotyped and safely away from my heart.

I do not need a crush on America’s Favorite Pastime Playboy.

That’s what the press calls him.

But…playboy he is not.

If he senses the random dialogue looping through my head, he doesn’t comment on it. Rather, he watches the road and lets me sit and stew. Radio off. Window down. Two hands on the wheel.

Big, strong, tan hands…

Rawr.

No. No, Hollis, no!

Except.

The tendons in his hands are straining, his forearms gorgeous. Giant. Tan. Hands.

Do not imagine them on your body, do not imagine them on your body, do not—

God, I bet those would feel amazing on my boobs and…other places.

I squirm, rubbing my thighs together, adjusting myself on the seat, and pretend to be interested in the landscape out the window.

Ten more minutes and I can be home, in bed, doing all the thinking of Buzz Wallace I want to in the privacy of my bedroom, with my hand dipped desperately between my legs.

Do not imagine his hands on your body, do not imagine his hands on your body, do not—

Not only do I imagine them on my body, I imagine other parts of him too, not on my body, but in it and I know then that I’m in deep, deep trouble.

“You got quiet all of a sudden,” he remarks, nearing my place.

“Sorry. It’s such a nice night out I’m enjoying the drive.” Enjoying the drive? Seriously Hollis? Gag.

His chuckle is low, as if he knows I’m full of shit.

“We should do this more often.” His comment is offhanded and nonchalant.

“Random backyard parties? Where do we find more of those?”

He looks embarrassed. “Good point. I just meant we could hang out more if you wanted.”

If I want to or because he wants to? “Are you saying you want to spend more time with me?”

His shoulders shrug. His big, sexy shoulders—they take me back to that place where I’m daydreaming again. Nothing gets me hotter than a strong upper torso. The back of a man’s head especially when it’s clean-cut and freshly shorn.

I can see the tendons every time a car passes by, spotlight illuminating the cab of his car.

Rawr.

I can’t stop staring at his profile, he’s so handsome.

“Are you crushing on me, Westbrooke?” His voice teases me, out of the blue.

“What?” I scoff. “Me? God no. And the last time someone called me by my last name, I was in middle school.”

“Have you ever had a nickname?”

“Not really. My brother and sister used to call me Number Two when I was younger because I’m the middle child, but no, none of my friends ever had nicknames for me. Last names don’t count.” I glance over at him. “What about you? Besides Buzz.”