I like it warm

Aaron

For three long seconds, neither of us moved.

Rain lashed against the windshield, turning the streetlights into blurred smears of gold and red. Steam rose from the wet asphalt between my bumper and her front tire, swirling around her like smoke.

Scarlett didn’t bother lowering the kickstand. She killed the engine and let the heavy Ducati settle against its crash bar in the middle of the road, deliberately blocking both lanes.

Then she swung one leg over the bike.

She walked toward my passenger side with the confidence of someone who had never asked for permission in her entire life. Water glistened on her black leather jacket, dark strands of wet hair clinging to her jaw.

She stopped beside the tinted window.

Tap.

Tap.

She tapped two sharp nails against the glass.

Our eyes met through the dark tint. She simply tilted her head, lifted those two fingers and curled them once.

Unlock it.

I stared back at her. Every instinct I possessed told me to shift into gear, drive around her motorcycle and erase this entire encounter from my night.

She was Marcus Vance’s daughter. She was chaos wearing leather. She was the kind of complication I had spent my entire life avoiding.

And yet…

My thumb hovered over the lock.

“No.” I muttered to myself.

The word sounded convincing. But the click of the central lock disagreed.

The passenger door swung open. Scarlett slipped inside before the mechanism had even finished unlocking.

She shut the door with a solid thud, sealing us inside the quiet cabin.

Cold air rushed in with her, carrying the scent of rain, damp leather, vanilla perfume, and gasoline.

Without asking, she tossed her helmet onto the back seat, wiped a stray drop of water from her cheekbone with the back of her hand and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

“Drive,” She ordered.

I didn’t touch the gear shift. I kept both hands resting at ten and two on the leather steering wheel.

My posture stayed perfectly straight.

“I don’t remember putting a taxi meter on this car.” I said dryly. “Nor do I recall offering chauffeur services to runaway brides.”

Only then did she look at me. Those storm-gray eyes settled on mine, bright with restrained fury. “Save the dry wit for your board meetings, Wylder.” She snapped and then leaned back. “Drive the fucking car.”

I didn't blink.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you back into the street.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Because my father’s security detail has been following me since I left the gala.” She glanced into the passenger mirror. “Two SUVs.” Then she glanced back at me. “They are about thirty seconds away.”

I held her gaze, refusing to let her see a single crack in my composure. “That sounds like a Vance family crisis. Why, exactly, is that my problem?”

A sharp, bitter smirk curved her lips. She leaned slightly toward me, invading my personal space without a shred of hesitation.

“It became your problem..” she replied calmly, “the moment you decided to follow me.”

“I wasn’t following you.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched. “So the great Aaron Wylder routinely takes midnight joyrides through industrial rail yards just to admire the rain?”

She knew me. Of course, she knew my name.

“Interesting hobby.” She scoffed.

Before I could answer, two sets of bright headlights pierced the rain behind us. They appeared at the far end of the road, growing larger with every second.

They saw my Aston Martin. And they saw her Ducati blocking the road.

Scarlett didn’t even look back. “They know my bike.” Her voice was calm. “They will recognize your Aston Martin too.”

“If they pull up now…” She continued lazily, “they will assume the CEO of Empire Group is helping Senator Vance’s daughter disappear minutes after announcing her engagement.”

She turned toward me again. “And tomorrow morning, every news outlet in the country will happily invent the rest.”

I looked from her dark eyes to the rearview mirror. The SUVs were closing the distance fast, their high beams sweeping over the wet asphalt.

Control. I lived by it. I breathed it.

And in one terrifying, exhilarating second, this woman had completely stripped it out of my hands.

My jaw tightened.

Without another word, I shifted into drive. The Aston Martin lunged forward. The twin-turbo engine roared beneath the hood as I swung around her abandoned Ducati and accelerated into the rain-soaked night.

In the rearview mirror, two black SUVs burst through the intersection.

Still there.

I wasn't surprised.

Marcus Vance hadn't become one of the most powerful men in the country by hiring incompetent people.

I rested one hand lightly on the steering wheel.

My heartbeat never changed. Pressure had never been my enemy.

Beside me, however, chaos had apparently decided to make itself comfortable.

I caught movement in my peripheral vision.

Scarlett leaned forward, unlatched the glove compartment of my three-hundred-thousand-dollar car and began rummaging through it.

She pulled out a small travel pack of premium tissues. “Huh.” She scoffed as she popped it open and took a handful. “Premium.”

"...Really?" I almost scoffed.

"What?" She asked innocently.

"You are searching through my car."

"My hair is soaked."

"As is the rest of you."

"So?" She dabbed at the rainwater dripping from her hair as though we weren't currently being chased through the city.

Then, she tossed the damp tissues into the cup holder, reached toward the center console, and began turning the dials.

Click. Click. Click.

Warm air blasted through the vents.

I stared ahead. "Don’t change my temperature.”

She didn’t seem to care. "You had it set to Antarctica."

"It was sixty-eight."

"I like it warm."

I said nothing.

She smiled to herself. Then she stretched her legs out, resting her boots a little too close to the dashboard.

My eye twitched. I gripped the steering wheel a fraction tighter but said nothing.

"Where am I taking you to?" I asked.