The Collision on Hardwood Drive

1

What started as a collision on Hardwood Drive—a fitting name considering my sex life had come to a screeching halt lately—turned into love, joy, and some of the most earth-shattering orgasms I’ve ever had.

I couldn’t help sighing as I slowly buckled my seat belt, wearing nothing but my sports bra so I could cool from the night’s exhaustive drills.
Plié! Pas de bourrée!
Again!
I rolled my eyes into the darkness and cursed the director. I had been dancing since I was six, and
no one
had ever accused me of sloppy form—until today. Dejected, I started my car and pulled out to start toward home. Eric Clapton’s voice filled the air as I settled on a radio station.

“Stephanie,” I imagined my mom’s voice. “You danced your heart out, babe. That director is a prick.”

I smiled wistfully, wanting to call her, to hear her voice at the other end of the line—but these days, a full glass of Pinot and a new episode of
The Bachelorette
in my empty apartment would have to suffice.

Living alone
did
have its perks. No snide remarks about your TV preferences, leaving the toilet seat down, and—ugh—discovering some floozy waitress with your man in your bed.
Ugh
. The mere thought of that scene made me sick, and I wanted to move on; yet, barely a day had gone by that I hadn’t thought of it.

Yes, my life had been on a bit of a downward spiral since then. My professional life and my personal life both suffered—and my sex life? Forget it. I needed something—some
one
—to take me out of this reverie of melancholy, loneliness, and sexual frustration. Yet, the more I thought of sex, the more I thought about Michael—Michael with another woman, her sultry moans coming from
my
bedroom.

What if I hadn’t spilled my coffee on my blouse that day? I wouldn’t have come home for a new shirt. What if I had gone to Claire’s to change instead of going home? What if I—
BAM!

I was jolted back to the present as the sickening crunch of metal against metal flooded my ears. My body pitched forward, my head slamming against the steering wheel. Eric continued to sing,
Would you know my name, if I saw you…

The world went black for a few seconds. The first thing I remembered was the hood of my car—completely crumpled, folded into the side of a dark sedan.
Fuck
, that car looked expensive. My heart pounded in my ears. Unable to move, I tried to breathe. What in the hell just happened?

“All right, jackass, you had better believe you’re paying for this,” someone bellowed in a deep, baritone voice. The sound came from the street as someone quickly approached my door. A tall man charged toward my car, his figure becoming clearer and clearer.

Shit, shit, shit. Of course, I just had to hit the biggest asshole in Manhattan
.

I clenched my fists and braced myself for a barrage of obscenities.

The man appeared at my window in mere seconds, pounding a fist furiously against the glass. He pulled at my door, and it swung open, the locks having sprung loose.

“
Buddy
—” he growled. “Miss?”

When I looked up to find a classically handsome face staring down at me, I was surprised to see
him
looking so surprised.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment
/
Mmm
,
he’s handsome. Just a slight bit of stubble. I bet it would tickle if he…
His build made him look as if he should be a quarterback for the Jets. “Oh, God,” I said, finally, wincing as my head throbbed.

“You hit your head,” he said.

“You’re awfully observant,” I answered.
My car wouldn’t even make it home. This is the last thing I needed to top off this bad night.

“Look at me,” he said, softening his voice and leaning over me.

Mmmm
. The smell of him was intoxicating, his cologne spicy and woodsy all at once, enveloping me as though we were tangled. I froze, caught off guard by how close he had suddenly gotten, our faces close. He was still a bit taller than I am, even though he was kneeling, and I noticed the beautiful shade of his eyes—a deep, intense, and piercing slate—when I looked up at him. He looked in his midforties with some gray speckling his otherwise rich brown locks. His face was strong, chiseled, and manly—no one would ever accuse him of being
boyish
, a trait I found overrated, anyway. A hint of a five o’ clock shadow colored the angles of his jaw, making him look slightly rugged despite his immaculate suit and tie.

I couldn’t help staring at his lips when they began to move. Even though I would have liked to blame my woozy state, I couldn’t deny the magnetic pull in his eyes, a pull that had a strong effect on me, one I couldn’t explain.

“You don’t have a concussion,” he said, as though he were repeating himself. I must have missed what he said previously. “Your pupils aren’t dilated—seems as though it’s just a superficial bump.”

“Don’t tell me I hit a doctor,” I said, reaching up to explore the knot forming on my forehead.

“Come on, Ms. Sarcastic,” he said. “Let’s get you out of that car.” The man slipped a muscular arm around my waist, his skin touching my bare back. The cool feel of our bodies touching was innocent, yet intimate.

Oh, my God, my shirt.
I realized that I had peeled it off before heading home, and I was now
painfully
aware of my current attire—a flimsy bra and tight pants. I wanted to feel embarrassed, but realized that I was turned on.
Yes, baby. Peel it
all
off. Don’t you know I need it?

“Better?” he asked, locking our eyes together again.

“Better,” I agreed, but the confused and slightly pained grin I forced to my lips likely gave away my actual answer. My car was wrecked; my night was ruined; my
relationship
was—I sighed. No point thinking about that now.

We walked toward the front of my car to check out the damage. I winced when I saw the front of my Toyota folded in like an accordion. “
Shit
.” His car—a
Bentley
—was in much better shape.

“Did I crash into you?” I remembered to ask after a moment, groaning internally at the thought. I couldn’t
believe
I had hit him—or did I? I had no recollection of the impact.

He nodded. Once more, I heard myself groan in my head. Of
course
. Crashing into the most notoriously expensive car money could buy. That’s just my luck. “Well, it’ll take only a couple of decades for me to pay you back,” I blathered.

“You have beautiful skin,” he mused, his firm arm on my hip.

I blinked. “Odd time for a compliment, don’t you think?”

He smirked. “What’s your name?”

“Stephanie. Stephanie Monroe. I’m
so
—”

“Stephanie, don’t be sorry. If someone had to crash into my Mulsanne, I’d rather it be you.” He moved in a bit closer, narrowing the gap between us. The slight shift in his posture was again innocent, but exhilaratingly so. His tall build looming over me took my breath away. “Now, here’s what I’d like to do. “I don’t want the goddamned cops here. They’re the last thing I need right now. You call the cops; you get the media. I can just imagine what the bastards are going to write in the papers tomorrow if they show up here.”

“The papers?” I asked.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he asked.

He was right. I shook my head.

“Look,” he continued. “Let’s just keep this between us. If we call anyone, it will mean negative publicity for me and the end of your private life. What do you say?”

“But my insurance… I don’t—” I stopped, distracted by his shoulders and that strong, but lithe, V-shape I love in a man’s body.

“Stephanie,” he said, not giving me time to continue my protests. “I don’t want you to worry about that.”

My name glided off his tongue, sexy and seductive. I wanted to hear him say it again and again, to moan it in my ear again and—

He continued, “To hell with insurance. No police, no insurance. Just you and me. I’ll take care of you.”

“Take care of me? You’re going a little fast, don’t you think?”

“It’s my style. I’m a man who knows what he wants and gets it. No. Matter. What.”

“Very dramatic, I like that. But—we still need to figure out how to get my car out of here. I don’t think it’s going to make it home.”

“I live just around the block. Follow me home, and my estate manager will take care of it. He’ll take your car to the shop. It’ll be better than new. Trust me.”

His gray eyes danced across the planes of my very nearly naked body. I felt my face flush, which wasn’t characteristic of me because I am definitely not the shy type.

“Estate manager?” I asked, his words finally registering in my mind. “What are you, the Saudi prince?”

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“You always get what you want, so… I guess it is,” I said.

“I see you’re a fast learner.”

“I try.”

I still felt a bit off-kilter, but I was glad to have someone take charge in a moment such as this. He laughed, revealing a perfect set of white teeth, so I guess I must have said something right.

“I’m Rob Huntley,” he said, extending a hand to me.

Rob Huntley. Rings a bell somewhere. Oh, no wedding ring. Hell yes!

I slipped my hand into his, our fingers locking in a warm, soft embrace.

“Pleasure,” I whispered, my stomach leaping through a series of advanced flip-flops.

“Oh, no. No,
no
. Trust me, the pleasure will be all mine. I assure you.” His eyes shone with a playful glint. I desperately wished I had put a brush through my hair before leaving rehearsal, instead of just knotting it at the top of my head.

I climbed back in my car and followed him, my little Toyota driving much better than it looked. Mere moments later, I pulled up to his home. Marble pillars lined a driveway that seemed to go on for miles. A plush garden surrounded a sweeping porch. It looked like it belonged on the cover of
Homes & Gardens
.

A bellman opened the door as soon as I parked.

“Ma’am,” he said as he offered me his hand to help me out of my car.

Rob waited for me on the steps. During the drive over, I had convinced myself that my interest in this man was sparked solely by my overcharged hormones. I had gone months and months without sex, after all. I would have felt a connection with
anyone
who appeared on the scene.

But when I saw the tall outline of Rob’s body in the dark, I felt my heart begin to race again. I couldn’t help questioning my newfound resolve that the chemistry between us was all in my head.

“Well, here we are,” he said when I reached the top of the stairs.

He guided me into the house, resting his hand gently against the small of my back. The house was warm and softly lit. An older, grandmotherly woman greeted us as we walked in.

“Mr. Huntley,” she said, her accent hinting at a foreign upbringing. “Do you require anything at this hour?”

“Stephanie, this is Beatrice—my estate manager. Beatrice, Stephanie Monroe.”

“An old friend, sir?” Beatrice asked.

“Something like that,” he said.

“We just ran into each other,” I said at almost the same time. “Literally.”

Beatrice tilted her head toward me in a polite greeting.

“Beatrice, get us some Perrier and some ice. For Stephanie’s forehead.”

“I won’t need a drink,” I said. “I’ll need to go home in about twenty minutes, anyway. It’s been a long day.”

“Are you sure? Stay a bit longer—and you
do
need to drink. You need something to eat too,” Rob said, insistently.

I shook my head, even though leaving his company was the last thing I wanted to do. “We’ll get Anthony to drive you home,” Beatrice said. She nodded understandingly in my direction before she disappeared.

“Did she work for the Queen or something?” I asked him.

Rob smiled and led me to a room that must have been the study. I walked a bit slower than he did to take in the house—if you could even call it that. I observed that Rob had to be at
least
6' 3". He directed me toward a plush, dark green couch in the study and motioned for me to sit as he walked to a vintage bar cart in the corner of the room.

“May I get you anything?” he asked as he poured himself bourbon, neat.

I felt as if I had just walked on the set of
Mad Men,
and Don Draper was offering me a drink—except Rob was even more handsome than Jon Hamm is.

I shook my head after a second of deliberation. The last thing I needed was to lose control of this night even more than I already had.