As I grab my phone to leave the next morning, someone knocks on my door.

I yank it open to find Patrick. He hands me the screwdriver that he borrowed last night. We shot a round of pool then after he returned from an outdoor adventure trip. As he valiantly worked his way around the table trying to best me, he regaled me with tales of ropes and hikes and trails and wild late-night antics. I mostly listened. It was better than stewing alone over Henley’s quick departure, though somehow Patrick pried a few minor details from me about my night. They were mainly along the lines of I told her I was attracted to her, she went to a late-night meeting with her boss. End of story.

He thanks me for the screwdriver, and I set it on the nearest shelf. I’ll put it away later when I return from Connecticut.

I leave and lock the door behind me. “Gotta keep the riffraff like you away from my pool table,” I say, a bottle of wine in hand for the host.

He claps me on my back. “Glad to see you’re not still in a funk.”

“I was not in a funk last night.”

“Right. Sure. Whatever you say.”

“I’m in a jolly mood,” I say, slapping on a counterfeit smile as I head down the hall and stab the elevator button. “I beat you both times.”

“Yeah. You’re radiating happiness.” Patrick pretends to waft the air toward him. “Mmmm. I can smell it coming off you in waves.”

“Scent of Charming and Joyful, right? I’m going to bottle it and make millions,” I say as the elevator arrives and we step inside.

Patrick wraps his hands around the brass bar and leans back against it, clucking his tongue. “You know, you could just tell her you’re into her.”

I snap my gaze at him. “What?”

“Oh sorry. Let me try that in simpler language. TELL HENLEY YOU DIG HER FOR MORE THAN SEX.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not the issue.”

When the elevator reaches his floor and the doors open, he casts me a parting glance. “But what if it is? Sometimes a lady likes a man who’s direct and doesn’t play games.”

That’s insane. I have absolutely not played games with Henley. And I don’t know how she could think I just want her for sex. Hell, I was the only one who even breathed a word last night about feelings.

I shove his comments out of my mind as I head around the block to the parking garage where I keep my Triumph. This is the car I’d always wanted as a kid. It was the car I dreamed of. The one I longed for. There’s nothing I don’t love about this baby.

I haven’t taken her out in a few weeks, so I pause for a moment to pet the hood and ask her how she’s doing.

I cup my hand over my ear. “What’s that? You missed me? Aw. I missed you, too, Blue Betty,” I say as I run my fingers along the pristine windshield. I place the wine on the sliver of a backseat—it’s basically big enough for a small gift for your rich friend—then slide into the beige leather driver’s seat, lower the top, and back up. Nothing says a perfect fall day like a drive to Connecticut in your restored electric-blue roadster.

When I arrive at Henley’s block in her SoHo neighborhood, I scan for the nearby garage to park for a couple minutes. I could call her and have her come down, but even though this is Manhattan, a man should make an effort when he picks up a woman. Calling her is like honking a horn at a chick before a date.

Except this isn’t a date. It’s an I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-it-is.

But there’s no need to find the garage, since Henley’s standing at the curb, looking like she just stepped out of The Great Gatsby. Big sunglasses cover her eyes, and a red silk scarf is tossed elegantly over her hair. A purple dress shows off her legs. She holds a bottle of champagne and a little jacket.

Lord have mercy.

I forget I’m annoyed. I forget what time it is. I nearly forget my name. I pull over, double-park, and call out, “Have I gone back in time, Daisy Buchanan?”

She laughs as she pats the scarf. “Perhaps you have, old sport. I fancy a drive to the country.”

As she walks over to Blue Betty, I hop out, head around the back, and open the passenger door for her. But she doesn’t get in. Instead, she hands me the bottle, then says as if she’s in church, “I just need a moment.”

She hops on the hood, and falls back in slow-mo, as if she’s making a snow angel on my car. A look of exquisite bliss spreads across her face as she murmurs, “I understand love at first sight. I fall in love with every Triumph TR6 I see.”

Nothing, not a damn thing, has ever looked finer than Henley in her purple dress as she luxuriates on the hood of my ride. I would snap a photo if I were a cell-phone-picture kind of guy. But I’m not, since I know it’ll last forever in my mind’s eye.

“Glad to hear you like Blue Betty.”

She rolls to her side and strokes the hood. “And you gave her a name,” she says, utterly delighted.

“Of course I gave her a name.”

“She is beautiful,” Henley says, planting a quick kiss on the metal then hopping off the hood.

I set the champagne in the back, then Henley slips into her seat and smooths her dress as I shut her door. I return to the driver’s seat and cast her one more admiring glance. As I drink her in, from the scarf to the royal purple of the dress, I picture her getting ready a few minutes earlier. I wonder what her place looks like. If she’s neat or messy. If her apartment would share secrets about Henley she has yet to reveal. I’ve never seen where she lives. I don’t entirely get what she’s up to. Most of all, I have no clue what she wants from me, or how to even broach the topic again, so I sidestep to safer ground. “So this is the girlie Henley?”

“It seemed appropriate for our expedition.”

I tip my head toward her building. “I bet your place is full of pink and rhinestones.”

She swats my arm. “Shame on you. I’m a diamonds kind of girl. Now, let’s be on our way.” She shoos me along, and I steer away from the curb and navigate through SoHo toward the FDR Drive. As we head out of the city, we’re quiet. I’m focused on driving, but I’m also honestly not sure what to say next. Last night felt like the start of something. The door opened on the dance floor, then widened when we cleared the air about our split, but it swung shut abruptly as soon as she hung up her phone. I’d been so sure where the evening was headed, then it unraveled into the mystery of her once more.

She reaches into her purse and fishes around. As I stop at a light, she shows me a crinkly clear plastic bag with a blue bow on it. Inside are two bath bombs.

“For you,” she says, with a shy smile. Is Henley shy about something? About anything? If she is, she wears shyness well, because that smile is endearing. “To say I’m sorry I had to leave early last night.”

Her apology intrigues me. The light changes, so I hit the gas, say thank you for the gift, and let her continue. She taps the outline of the white and tan bath bomb. “This is Cedar Grove. So it’s super manly. And the other is Peach Dreams.”

“So, super manly, too?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Peach Dreams just smells pretty.” She smiles and brushes some loose strands of hair from her face.

“Want me to put the top up?”

“Not until hail is shrieking from the sky. Besides, that’s what this is for,” she says, running a hand down the scarf. She relaxes into the seat as I turn onto the FDR Drive. She sets the gift in the console.

I glance at it briefly then return my eyes to the road. I can’t help but wonder if the gift means something. Two bath bombs. One masculine. One feminine. But as soon as those ridiculous thoughts land in my brain, I’m fucking embarrassed. This girl does not want romance from me, or mushy thoughts of coupledom. I don’t know what she wants. I push them into a far corner in my head then kick some dirt over them. She’s simply saying she’s sorry for cutting out early, not for dashing my hopes for a sleepover, with homemade pancakes for breakfast as a bonus—and I make kickass blueberry pancakes. Besides, I ought to know better. I need to stick to my own guideline—don’t sleep with the enemy.

Though, I’ve already crossed that line a few times. Better amend the rule to—don’t fall for the enemy.

I try my best to keep her at a distance. “Thank you for the gift, but you don’t have to say you’re sorry for anything.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You had business to take care of. Did you get everything squared away?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pained look on her face. “I think so,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it. She brings her fingers to her mouth, as if she’s about to bite her nail. She stops herself, placing her hands in her lap.

Out of instinct, I set a hand on her thigh. “Hey, are you okay?”

She nods, and it’s the tough kind. The I’ll be fine style. “I will be.”

“Anything . . . you want to talk about? Even though it would be weird for us to discuss business, I guess.”

“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to avoid?”

“That probably means I shouldn’t ask you about the Bugatti guy, either.”

She thrusts her arms in the air, her mood shifting instantly. “Bulletproof glass. I’m survivalizing his car.”

I crack up from her enthusiasm. “For real?”

She nods as we cruise along the FDR, the wind from the open top whipping past us, a lone gray cloud hanging low in the sky. “Can you believe it? I signed the deal yesterday, and he brought the car in this morning. I was at the shop early to meet him, and I’m starting the work on Monday. He’s a total zombie freak.”

That surprises the hell out of me. “Never would have pegged him for a zombie guy. He seemed pure Wall Street all the way.”

“I thought so, too, but then I noticed this,” she says, tapping her wrist. It’s bare and slender and pretty. And holy fuck, did I just actually think a woman’s wrist was sexy?

“What about his wrist?”

“His watch. It’s the kind zombie survivalists wear. It’s a Casio model that’s popular among that crowd.”

“No fucking kidding? I remember that watch. I figured he repped the company or something. Never occurred to me it meant he was a Walking Dead believer.”

“As soon as I saw it, I knew what would get him fired up. I told him his Bugatti was already fast enough to get out of a horde of brain-eaters in less than three seconds, but had his Veyron been outfitted to withstand the walking dead in the apocalypse? Hook. Line. Sinker,” she says, then mimes reeling him in.

For a moment, I wait for the goblin on my shoulder to reappear in a new form. To rage with work jealousy over her winning a potential deal that I not only didn’t get—I didn’t know how to win. But the green-eyed monster never rears his head. And that’s not only because I didn’t want to work with the guy. It’s because she deserves this deal. She spotted the way in that I didn’t see.

I’ve got to give her credit for sealing the deal. “Good for you, Henley. I’m impressed. And I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you. I’m proud of me, too,” she says, and there’s a lovely happiness in her tone that warms my heart. She looks at me, and her eyes go wide.

“What’s wrong?” I say, flicking my gaze back to the concrete ribbon in front of us as we head onto I-95. On the horizon, the sky darkens.

“We just discussed business, and you didn’t flip out and I didn’t flip out.”

“Does that mean we’re not enemies anymore?”

When she kicks off one heel and sets her foot on the dashboard, she says, “You weren’t my enemy last night.”

“On the dance floor?”

She shakes her head. “When I got home,” she says, and her voice takes on a softer edge. “That’s why I’m sorry I had to leave early.”

And color me even more intrigued. “What did you do when you were back at your place?”