I fan my face. “I’m swooning. That was almost a full sentence.”

He stalks up to me, closing the space between us in a few broad steps. I straighten and stare up at him, undaunted. The beating of my heart drowns out the muffled ruckus of the party. My skin prickles with the crisp breeze swirling around us. My eyes soak in the shadowed lines of his face as his warm breath brushes against my cheek. He groans and walks away. I stare daggers at him strutting down the street. He gets off on rejecting me.

He slows next to an old muscle car, the kind of thing my brothers would lose their minds over. Opening the driver’s-side door, he shouts at me over his shoulder, “Coming, JB?”

JB? Not Jessica. Not Jessie. Not even Jessie Bird! I get initials like some locker-room buddy. Who is this guy? After four years of horny jocks and handsy frat boys, detached Devin is an irresistible temptation. Being told I can’t have something makes me need it. I love a challenge and Devin’s aloofness is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

He stands there, elbows perched on the roof of the car. He’s looking off down the street, but he’s waiting for me. When his gaze drifts to me, I pull my hair off my shoulder with a sexy toss. I lick my lips, hoping they glisten in the moonlight, and unleash a naughty smile that hints at all the dirty thoughts running through my mind.

Without a word, I strut up to the passenger’s-side door with a swing of my hips and climb in. A thud that sounds very much like a fist pounding on the roof of a muscle car makes me chuckle. Devin climbs in beside me, enveloping me in his dark demeanor and masculine smell. I inhale the citrus and gasoline scent, an intoxicating combination that makes my mouth water.

I turn to him with a simper. “If you insist.”

The growl escaping his chest matches the rumble of the engine as he starts the car and pulls out into the street.

“So, Devin. Are you a car guy?”

“Which way?” he asks, avoiding my question.

I point to the right. “I’m a bit of a car person myself.”

I catch Devin side-eyeing me as he turns right.

“My 2010 Civic is a classic,” I tease, stealing my features. “Experts all agree Honda outdid themselves with that four-cylinder masterpiece.”

He shakes his head and in the passing streetlights I can tell he’s amused. Excitement courses through me with the growing desperation to make this man laugh.

“It’s in near-mint condition. Aside from an unfortunate incident with a runaway shopping cart, it’s cherry,” I deadpan.

We come to the next stop. He nods forward. I point to the right again.

“Another few years and it will be worth a whopping three thousand dollars. Give me a call sometime if you want to take her for a spin.”

He looks around as realization sets in. “Why did we circle the block?”