Cars are like ice cream.

There’s a flavor for everyone.

Some auto enthusiasts opt for vanilla. For them, a basic sports car will do just fine.

Others want a sundae with everything on it, from the badass paint job to the jacked-up wheels to the sound system that registers on the Richter scale.

Then, you’ve got the car buffs who gravitate toward a dark chocolate gelato, forking over big bucks for a sleek Aston Martin outfitted with an engine that kills it on the autobahn.

Every now and then, though, you’ll encounter the fellow who doesn’t know what he likes so he goes for rainbow sprinkles, bananas, chopped nuts, and a cherry on top. Like this guy I’m talking to right now at a custom car show just outside Manhattan.

The bespectacled man strokes his chin then asks in a smooth, sophisticated voice, “Could you make an armored car?”

That’s the latest question from this thirty-something guy in tailored slacks and a crisp, white button-down. Wire-rimmed glasses slide to the bridge of his nose as he gestures to an emerald-green, fully customized sports car that holds center stage.

“Armored cars are in my arsenal,” I say, since I’ve made a few beasts designed to outlast a zombie apocalypse, courtesy of some survivalist clients.

He arches an eyebrow. “Could you add in some sleek tail fins?”

Ah, tail fins. I have a hunch where he’s going now, and it’s not to the land of the undead. “I can do that, too.”

“And maybe it can even ride low and respond to commands?”

I stifle a laugh, since I have his number for sure now, and I fucking love the enthusiasm of the newbies. “Absolutely. I assume you’d want it in black?”

His blue eyes light up. “Yes. Black would be perfect.”

For the Batmobile. Because that’s what the dude just described. I’m not knocking him or the Batmobile. That vehicle is absolutely at the top of my bucket list, too. What self-respecting gearhead wouldn’t want to tool around town in a superhero’s tricked-out ride?

This guy’s nowhere near done, though, as he peppers me with a new set of questions. “Would you be able to make a car that—just for the sake of argument—can jump incredibly far distances?”

I don’t need precognition to know where he’s going with this new scenario. “Would you want it to play a little song when you hit the horn?”

His eyes twinkle. “Oh, that’s a nice feature indeed.”

I wonder where I came up with that idea. Could it be my vast knowledge of the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard?

The guy is rolling through the greatest hits of cars on TV or film. And you know what? There’s not a damn thing wrong with that. If he learns about cars from the tube or the screen, so be it. Maybe he’ll ask me to make a VW Bug that talks. My sister has begged for that for years, and if I ever figure out how, I’m delivering it to her first.

“What about wings for doors?” he asks.

“Like a DeLorean?”

He nods in excitement. “I love that car so much.”

“I haven’t met a DeLorean I didn’t want to marry, either. That’s the reason I got into this business in the first place.”

“Are you a Back to the Future fan, too?”

I hold up a fist for knocking. “You know it.”

“Any chance you could put a flux capacitor in it for me?”

“Absolutely. And I promise it’ll hit 1.21 gigawatts when you crank the gas,” I say, and as we laugh, the click clack of many pairs of high heels against asphalt surrounds us. This show is swarming with women in heels, working the booths, posing seductively on hoods or beside doors. Can’t say that bothers me. Nope, I definitely can’t say I’m annoyed by the proliferation of female flesh one bit.

Cars and chicks—that’s all I need for sustenance.

But now’s not the time for checking out the scenery, because business always comes first. I extend a hand to the Back to the Future fan. “Max Summers of Summers Custom Autos.”

He shakes with me. “David Winters. And I know this may shock you, but—confession—I know nothing about cars.”

“Nothing wrong with that, since I know a ton.”

He smiles and shrugs sheepishly. “Excellent. I’m looking for a builder who can make the best. Like this one, I presume?” he asks, pointing to the sleek green beauty I’m keeping watch over at the show. I’m here with a client. I customized this baby for Wagner Boost—an NFL lineman who’s off signing autographs somewhere nearby. Wagner is a mammoth man. At six foot eight and 350 pounds—that’s his morning weight, since he jokes that he shoots up to 360 after breakfast—he needed a car tailored to fit his frame. I made it for him, and he likes to show it off.

“Let me tell you something,” I say, patting the hood of Wagner’s prized possession. “If you can dream it, I can damn near make it. If you want aftermarket tires, a new engine, or custom upholstery, I’ll take care of it. If you want to marry parts from a roadster you’ve seen in a gangster flick with a futuristic prototype, I’ll find a way. I’ll deliver on your vision because that’s what I do.”

The tap tap of stiletto heels sounds closer now, like someone is approaching, as David fires off another question. “Can you—?”

A woman’s voice interrupts. “Can you paint a badass tiger on the door?”

No. Fucking. Way.

That voice. That sexy purr. Like honey, like whiskey. Like dirty dreams.

Everything in me goes still. I haven’t heard that voice in years. I don’t even have to turn around because one more click, then another, and here she is, standing in front of me. Looking hotter than she ever did before.

Long brown hair. Dark chocolate eyes. Legs that go on forever.

Henley Rose Marlowe.

Fuck me senseless.

It’s her.

The woman who drove me crazy.

I’m momentarily speechless as I take her in, because she’s not twenty-one anymore. She’s five years older and twenty-five times hotter. Yes, her hotness has squared with the years.

But I’m not about to let a potential deal slide through my fingers. I never let women get in the way of work, especially not one who’s inserting herself into the middle of a conversation with a fucking tiger comment.

I get around her interruption by going along with it.

“The tiger can even be roaring,” I suggest, as if she’s just some random car lover who’s keen on chitchatting, not a girl who used to work under the hood in my shop.

“Maybe even breathing fire,” Henley offers, like we’ve got this wordplay down pat, Who’s on first? style.

David gets into the action, too, emitting a rawr as he holds up his hands as if they’re claws.

Henley flashes him the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen, and in less than a second, the fire-breathing tiger inhabits me. Because I’m jealous as hell. For no good reason.

David smiles back at her.

Okay, maybe for that reason.

Which is not an acceptable reason at all. I shake off the useless emotion as David speaks again. “That’s it. I’ve officially decided I want a tiger on the door of a DeLorean. Painted in green, like the color of money.”

Yep, he’s rainbow-sprinkles all the way, and I focus on the sprinkles, not the flirty grins exchanged between this guy and a woman who was never mine, not even for one night.

“You can have it in royal purple, in emerald green, in sapphire blue,” I tell him. “You can have it with a flag on the hood, a pinstripe on the door, and the sweetest stick shift you’ve ever felt in your hands.”

“Purple and a sweet stick? I’m sold.” He clasps my hand in a good-bye shake. “I’ll be in touch.” He takes a step to go then stops. “Is purple too crazy a color? What do you think?” he asks the woman who’d make any red-blooded man gawk.

Perfect figure. Pouty lips. Tight waist. Gravity-defying tits. If God created an ideal woman to sell anything to any red-blooded man, he’d make her just like Henley.

Not sure he’d intend her to have such a smartass mouth, though.

She licks her lips. “Purple is hot as sin,” she says to David, like the words are for his ears only. She presses her fingertip to her tongue then touches the hood of the car as if it burns her. She raises her hand, letting the imaginary flame fly high.

David eats up her show, laughing and grinning.

“That’s an excellent selling point for purple. What about you, Max? Favorite color?” He holds up one hand as a stop sign. “Wait. Let me guess. Gold? Silver? Red? Blue?”

I shake my head. “Black.”

Then David says good-bye and heads off, and I’m left with this vexing vixen who hates me. She stares at me like a cat that won’t look away till you give her your hamburger. I don’t break her showdown, nor do I offer her a bite.

“Black,” she repeats, tapping the toe of her red suede pump as she glares with dark brown eyes full of fury. “Like your heart.”

Have I mentioned the last time I saw her she marched out of my shop in a blaze of angry glory?

Might be because I fired her sexy ass five years ago.

Yeah, there’s some bad blood between us.