Blitzed Page 6

A really long time.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my girls. But they are all married and most of them have kids. They aren’t coming over in the middle of the night to binge on a show that’s older than some of their children.

  Any doubts that I had lingering about Maxwell fade away with his laugh. Who doesn’t want a friend whom they can laugh with and who’d speed to rescue them from getting smashed like Frogger?

  A friend.

  A really, really good-looking friend.

  That’s all.

  Nine

  I trudge down the stairs to the front of my building, holding the strap of my cross-body purse and letting it thump against each step as I go. My hair is a mess, and the oversized sunglasses I grabbed from Target last week are barely hiding the dark circles beneath my eyes. My jeans are ripped at the knee and I’m wearing my “Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come” T-shirt.

  You know, just keeping it super fucking classy.

  Maxwell’s sparkling blue Tesla is double-parked right where he told me it was in the text he sent me. I pull open the door, glaring at his smiling face from beneath my dark lenses even though he’s doing me a favor.

  I toss my poor, battered purse onto the floor and tug at the seat belt with some of my pent-up aggression causing it to lock up. “Dammit,” I growl. I let it go and try again with gentle hands. This time, it glides across my body successfully and I jam it into the buckle before it decides to act up again. When I look up, Maxwell’s eyes are on me, crinkled at the corners like I’m the most amusing person he’s ever come across. “Why do you look so happy?”

  “What’s there not to be happy about?”

  Ugh. He’s a morning person.

  I mark it down in the flaws column.

  “You’re annoying.”

  “Here.” He shoves a warm cup into my hands, and the first hint of a smile graces my face since my phone rang before the sun came up this morning. “You need caffeine.”

  I take it, super grateful since I was out of coffee. Just another reason I never come home. Grocery shopping freaking blows.

  “7-Eleven?” I take a deep gulp, the nectar of the gods blessing my tongue. It’s not as sweet as I usually go for (creamer is my weakness) but beggars cannot be choosers. “I’ve never had their coffee before, but it’s good.”

  “Better than Starbucks and a fraction of the cost.”

  “You make a bazillion dollars and drive a Tesla.” I remind him of something I’m sure he knows better than I do. “You’re not allowed to complain about a five-dollar cup of coffee.”

  “It’s a waste,” he says, taking a sip out of his reusable coffee mug. “Why spend five dollars when I can spend one? That’s how people go broke, and coffee is not how I’m going down.”

  “But Starbucks has really good pastries,” I shoot back, grumpy enough to debate the merits of Starbucks versus convenience store coffee. “You can’t get pumpkin bread or chocolate croissants from 7-Eleven.”

  I don’t even know why I care. I don’t go to Starbucks either. I’m committed to local coffee shops. Fresh is my jam.

  “And Starbucks doesn’t have taquitos.”

  Well, damn. I guess I lost this round.

  “That’s true.” I look around the car in search of a little paper bag filled with crispy goodness. “Please tell me you got some.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners and he bites his bottom lip, which is not a very discreet way to hide his desire to laugh at me.

  I do, however, appreciate his restraint.

  “I didn’t.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “I didn’t know if you were a Monterey Jack chicken person or more of the jalapeño cream cheese type.”

  He knows the taquitos.

  A man after my own heart.

  “Monterey Jack taquitos, Coke Slurpee, and if I’m feeling really freaky, Reese’s peanut butter cups.” I take another sip of my coffee, deciding to take a trip to 7-Eleven for a Slurpee and a taquito (or three) for lunch today.

  Maxwell lifts a hand from the steering wheel and raises a fist over the center console.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he says as I bump his fist with mine.

  Then he makes his fist explode while saying, “Lalalalala.”

  I pull my sunglasses off my face and turn wide eyes to him. “What in the entire fuck was that?”

  He takes his eyes off the road for a second to look at me, his smile so bright I almost squint. “I was watching Big Hero 6 with Ace last night before he went to bed,” he says. “Baymax is the shit.”

  “I . . . I . . . I don’t even know what to do with you right now.” I trip over my words.

  “What?” he asks. “It’s an animated movie where they become superheroes using STEM. I rented out a theater and took the school I sponsor to see it when it came out.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And don’t tell anyone, but I tear up every time Tadashi runs into that burning building.”

  “You know what?” I blink hard and put my sunglasses back on, dropping my gaze to his computer car, and finally find the volume control. “It’s too early to deal with you.” I lean in and turn up the radio until I can’t hear Maxwell’s laugh anymore.

  At Maxwell’s insistence, I called a tow truck company last night before he went home. So instead of having to drop me off on the side of the highway, something I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have done anyways, he takes me to the auto shop near HERS.

  We pull up and he parks in one of the open spots. Half-built cars dot the oil-stained lot. The caffeine has settled in my system and I’m finally feeling more human than zombie.

  “Thank you again for the ride.” I grab my crap from the floor and my empty coffee cup. “Next time you’re at HERS, it’s on the house.”

  “You don’t owe me for being a decent friend,” he says. I try to object, but he talks over me. “But if you really want to do something, we can have another night of Parks and Rec.”

  “Deal.” I almost go to shake on it, but then I remember the whole fist bump thing and decide against it. “Where are you off to?”

  I don’t know how I didn’t ask him this before. I guess I can add “self-centered” to my before-coffee attributes.

  “To the facility. I’m gonna get in a workout and watch some film.”

  “Why?” It’s Tuesday and thanks to my constant circle of WAGS falling off the face of the earth, I know this is their one day off. Plus, I know he didn’t get home until at least three in the morning, probably later, and he was at my place at seven. His ass has to be tired.

  He shrugs. “It’s my job. You saw what happened to TK last year. I don’t know how long I have doing this, so I give it my all while I can. It’s a big game this weekend, I want to feel prepared.”

  Again with the modesty.

  Maxwell is the top defensive back in the league. I admit that I haven’t always been a follower of the sport and at the beginning I only watched my friends’ guys. But I know that ever since I started paying attention, Maxwell has been voted onto the Pro Bowl team.

  I guess now I know how he does it.

  “I hope some of your work ethic rubs off on me,” I toss over my shoulder, climbing out of the car.

  He leans over the console, looking up at me through the open door. “You live at HERS. And I know that as a fact after seeing your office and your house.”

  That is sad, but accurate.

  “You’re right.” I throw a fist into the air and shout, “Workaholics unite!”

  Okay . . . so maybe the large 7-Eleven coffee overcaffeinated me.

  Maxwell falls back into his seat, laughing so hard that he’s shaking his car.

  He rubs his hands beneath his eyes. “You’re a nut, Brynny Bear.”

  “Tadashi,” I counter, sticking my tongue out at him like the respectable business owner I am.

/>   “Shit,” he mutters, but does a terrible job of hiding his smile. “Truce?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, since we both need to reduce our workaholic tendencies, you want to grab lunch today?”

  Holy. Shit. Is Maxwell asking me out on a date?

  “Yeah, sure, yeah.” Smooth, Brynn.

  “Ma’am?” a grizzly voice calls from behind me, saving me from further embarrassment. “Are you here for the Land Rover?”

  I swing around and my metal-embellished purse slams into Maxwell’s sparkling, battery-powered car that costs more than my home. I feel my eyes try to escape from my head at the same time I hear the coverall-wearing mechanic let out a hiss of air, saying, “Oh shit, girl.”

  I don’t want to, but my feet move of their own accord to see the damage. When I see the small rows of scratches, I don’t know if I want to cry or throw up.

  “Oh my god.” I look from the damage to Maxwell and back again. “I am so sorry! I swear, I’ll pay to have it fixed. I promise, just tell me how much!”

  The guy goes out of his way to help me and I ruin his beautiful car! My stomach is in knots and now I’m so thankful he didn’t bring taquitos, because they’d be all over the ground. Or, with my luck, the side of his car.

  “Damn.” Maxwell’s voice is somber, like I just punched his baby. “Looks like you owe me season two now.” He winks, a wide grin appearing on his face. “It’s a car, Brynn, it’s not a big deal.”

  All of the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh and my shoulders fall.

  “Are you sure?” My hands are shaking so hard that I nearly drop my cup.

  “Positive.” He points to the man behind me. “Now go get your car. I’ll get you at twelve thirty.”

  He lifts a hand and gives a short wave before looking behind him (even though he has a rearview camera embedded in his computer car) and pulling out.

  “Shit,” the man behind me says. “Was that Maxwell Lewis?”

  Yes.

  Yes, it was.

  “No.” I move past him to the glass door they clearly don’t clean. “That was just a friend of mine. I guess I can kinda see the resemblance though.”

  Ten

  I’ve been staring at the door of HERS since I walked in . . . three hours ago.

  Of course, when Paisley asked why I was, I denied it until I was blue in the face. But now she’s onto me and she’s been staring at the door for the last hour as well.

  I don’t actually know what this is. I haven’t been on a proper date in . . . well . . . ever. My high school boyfriend didn’t have a car, so his mom always chauffeured us wherever we wanted to go. And as a commitment-phobic adult, I’ve diligently avoided anything that could be misconstrued as a date. In college, when a guy would ask me to the movies, I’d always show up to the theater thirty minutes early and buy my own ticket so they didn’t get any ideas.

  But lunch with Maxwell? I don’t know what it means.

  I glance at the clock and see that it is finally ten till twelve thirty.

  “I’m going to go to lunch,” I tell Paisley and Tanya. “Do you guys want me to bring you anything?”

  “Nope,” Tanya answers for both of them. “My mom is testing new recipes and I volunteered us to taste test for her. You sure you don’t want to stay?”

  Dammit. Taste testing for Tanya’s mom is my favorite thing to do. Now they are going to know something is up.

  “Well, now I’m not sure, you know your mom’s cooking is my favorite. But I’m going to try out a new brewery and I can’t cancel,” I lie . . . then immediately feel shitty for lying.

  “More for us!” Paisley raises a hand in the air for Tanya to high-five.

  We are all such dorks.

  “Jerks.” I stick out my tongue. “I’ll see you in an hour. Call if—”

  “If we need you.” Paisley finishes my sentence. “Yes, we know. You go, we can handle ourselves for a little.”

  “I’m gone then.”

  I go to my office to grab my purse and sneak out the back door, running to the front of the building to intercept Maxwell before he blows my cover.

  Luckily for me, I get there long enough before him that I’m not out of breath from running by the time he pulls up and I stop him far enough back that there’s no way Paisley or Tanya will see me hop in his sleek-ass car.

  “Tadashi.” I dip my chin. “How’s it going?”

  “She’s got jokes today,” he says as he opens the center console. “I got us a super-healthy lunch.”

  He reaches inside and when his hand comes out, it’s holding a small bag that I recognize on sight.

  “You did not!” I snatch the bag out of his hand and look inside. “Five taquitos? Who can eat that many?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I figured better safe than sorry. I didn’t want you to still be hungry.” He points at the cup holders that are both filled with Big Gulp Slurpees. “They’re both Coke, so it doesn’t matter which one you take.”

  Just like we talked about this morning. Would my standards be too low if I fell in love with him over this?

  I grab the Slurpee with the pink straw—because I’m really a toddler at heart—and take a gulp so deep I get an immediate brain freeze.

  “Ouch!” I squeeze my eyes shut and press on the pressure points at my temple. “Brain freeze!”

  “Are you four?” Maxwell says through laughter . . . and if my brain wasn’t freezing, I’d have punched him. “Don’t drink it so fast.”

  I wait until the brain freeze fades before I respond.

  “You have to drink them fast. If you don’t, then it melts and you’re just stuck with a flat Coke, and nobody wants that mess.”

  “Whatever you say.” He doesn’t bother to fight the smile that lights up his face. He flicks on his turn signal before slowing the car and pulling into a parking lot outside of the Denver Art Museum.

  “The art museum?”

  “I like that this is the part that is confusing you, not that I’d invite you to lunch and then hand you a bag of taquitos.” He parks the car and grabs another bag of taquitos out of the center console.

  My brows furrow together. “I told you that I love them, why would I question you bringing me my favorite food?”

  “I remember you telling me how many chair options there were when you were creating HERS, and the museum is having an exhibit on contemporary chairs.” He takes a sip of his Slurpee. “I thought it would be more fun than sitting in a restaurant, since that’s what you do all day long.”

  Okay.

  So we agreed that falling in love over a convenience store lunch was too low of standards, but taking me to an art exhibit based on a passing comment I barely remember making is totally acceptable, right? Right?

  “Is that okay?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring at him and not saying anything.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, yeah, this is okay. It’s great actually.”

  “Good, I’m glad.” He focuses on his food, and I swear I can almost see a blush creeping up his cheeks.

  Lunch and a museum with Maxwell!

  Shit!

  This is totally a date! And I’m totally okay with that.

  * * *

  —

  I’LL ADMIT THAT when Maxwell said we were going to see an art exhibit on chairs, I was a little skeptical. I mean, chairs. How exciting can they be, am I right?

  Wrong.

  This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. There are only eight chairs in the exhibit, but they are all vastly different and they reveal the different methods and tools each designer uses in making their masterpiece.

  I’ve never even thought of chairs as art before. Look at Maxwell, getting me all cultured and shit.

  “I think this one’s my favorite.” I point to the copper chair in front of m
e.

  “You’ve said that about every chair we’ve seen.”

  “Yeah, because I really like them all.” Duh. “But I think this is my new favorite. And it was made from a 3-D printer. I feel like I could make a chair now.”

  Lie. I can barely sign onto the Internet, and it took me a solid week to get the regular printer I have at HERS to work.

  Maxwell lets out a deep, throaty laugh. “I think it might be harder than you’re thinking.”

  “Nonsense.” I wave him off. “You just—”

  His ringing phone cuts me off . . . again.

  Since we’ve come into the museum, his phone has rung no less than five times. He turned off the ringer, but I can still hear the buzzing of the vibrate mode each time someone calls.

  “Sorry about that.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket . . . again . . . and declines the call . . . again.

  “Who is it?” I ask, my nosiness superseding all thoughts of being polite.

  He shows me the screen as he says, “No caller ID.”

  “That’s annoying.” And odd. Who gets back-to-back no-caller-ID calls? Sketch. “Why don’t you just answer? They obviously want to talk to you. Then maybe they’ll stop calling.”

  “Maybe.” His shoulders tense up and the smile on his face dims. “Hey, what do you think about this chair?”

  He points to the Meltdown Chair, which looks as dangerous as it does cool, but he’s also very clearly trying to move the subject away from his phone.

  “Did they melt poles together?” I lean in closer, still afraid to get too close and set off alarms. “I feel like this is from a cut scene in Final Destination. I think I’m too clumsy for this one to be a favorite.”

  “Then it will be my new favorite, I don’t want it to feel left out,” he says and I almost laugh.

  Almost.

  Because the phone goes off again.

  “Maxwell, I swear to God, if you don’t answer the phone, I will throw this chair at your head.”

  A little too violent? Possibly. But I can’t deal with this shit anymore.