Page 111 of Now Their Starlet

The makeup I put on is light—just some eyeliner, mascara, and lip tint—enough for me to feel more human. More me. But not enough to keep him waiting too long.

He’s waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I still have to death grip the railing every time I make my way up or down, but I’ve been getting better at not freezing up every time I set foot on them.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. The single curse leaves his lips on a barely audible exhale, and it sends a thrill shooting down my spine.

His hazelnut whiskey scent is so thick in the air that it makes me a little dizzy, almost like I pounded three shots back to back.

“How do I look?” I ask, my lips quirking into a cheeky grin. I give him a little spin, the skirt of the dress lifting with the motion, giving him a brief peek at my thighs..

“Perfect,” he says, his voice gruff. He clears his throat. “We should go before... before I get too distracted.”

I feel like I’m floating as he guides me to the garage, delighted to see he is as enchanted with me as I am with him.

Apparently, Edison has made room in here for some of the guys’ cars.

I let out a low whistle when Everett guides me to his gray Porsche Spyder.

“Fancy ride,” I say.

The corner of his lip quirks up in a self-satisfied smirk.

“When Beck bragged about how much you liked his sports car, I had to make sure you knew he wasn’t the only one with a little car collection.”

I let out an embarrassing giggle. Damn, I must seem like an airhead, giggling about these guys’ cars.

“You know, there’s a whole goldmine of jokes about how you two are competing to see who has the smallest cock,” I snicker, holding up my pinkie and giving it a little wiggle.

Everett’s gaze darkens as he holds open the door for me, gesturing for me to get inside.

I can’t bring shame on the feminist movement by acting like an airheaded bimbo. If I’m going to act like that, I have to balance out the scales by giving him shit.

“I would say this is a mid-life crisis competition, but because Beck is so much younger, it’s not really a competition. You know, cause you’re the only one really going through it. Tell me, do old men get hot flashes?”

“Get in the car, Andi,” he says, his voice low.

Oops, I’m in trouble if he’s using my name. God, he’s so fun to tease.

My pulse races as I slide in, barely biting back the ear-splitting grin that desperately wants to escape.

He stalks around the front of the car after shutting the door for me, his steps long and confident.

When he slides into the seat beside me and turns the car on, it purrs to life, vibrating through my seat. It sends a thrill down my spine.

Sue me, I’m a girl who enjoys a fancy car. Do I know a whole lot beyond the different models? Nope. If you lifted the hood, I wouldn’t be able to point out the difference between where the oil, windshield wiper fluid, and the engine coolant are supposed to go.

Actually, on second thought, I think you have to get under a car to change the oil, right? I guess that proves my point that I know nothing about cars other than when they look nice and sound cool.

“You sure get mouthy when it comes to my age,” he growls, peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “But I think you’re just waiting for me to shut you up.”

“We’re in the land of the free! What happened to freedom of speech!” I shoot back, losing the battle against the smile I’m trying to hold back as the garage door opens behind us.

“Freedom of speech doesn’t mean freedom from consequences, Honey,” he murmurs, resting his arm against the headrest of my seat and looking out the back window as he backs up.

I swallow hard, my chamomile perfume sweetening in the air around us at the sight. Because the cabin is so small, there’s no way for me to hide just how much the sight of him backing the car up the old-fashioned way affects me, even though there’s a rear-view camera right there.

I’m sure there’s a joke there, about how he’s backing up, but I’ve already pushed my luck enough. Plus, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? I want him to back up like this every time I’m in the car with him if it means I get to drink in the sight of his delicious forearms flexing right by my head.

“What if—what if I’m curious about the consequences?” My voice is far breathier than I would’ve wanted. I want to exude confident femme fatale around him, not nervous schoolgirl.