Live (The Burnside Series): The Burnside Series by Mary Ann Rivers Page A

long and bumpy. “Shitty.”
    “I can’t promise hanging out with me will make it better, but I’ll try.” His heart seemed to tip, like his words came as such a shock it almost fell over. He tried to steady it. “I mean, I’m only passable company, but the weather’s lovely, and you’ve brought round the limousine.”
    “Get in,” she said, and nudged his foot with hers. She was wearing the red trainers with the hole over the toe, God help him.
    He slid into the front bench seat of the limousine. There was a cardboard scent tree and a rosary hanging from the review mirror. A small Virgin Mary was fixed somehow to the dash, near white from sun bleach. There was an engraved brass plate over the stereo console that read PATSSRICK J. BURNSIDE LIC #70813. A tatty Irish flag pennant waved from a cup holder.
    He settled in and his hip crinkled something—a white paper bag—just as Des was sliding in. “That’s for you.”
    “You got me a present?” Fuck. He patted his pocket as if it might hold a bouquet he had accidentally stuffed there.
    “Look and see.”
    He opened it up to find a stack of cream-filled pastries with chocolate icing on. He stared at them like they might start to talk to him. Tell him what to do with the perfect woman when you found one in the wrong place at the wrong time and were very likelythe wrong man. They did not say anything because donuts didn’t talk and he was going mad.
    “Thank you, I—”
    Des reached back behind the bench seat and brought over a paper hot cup with a tea tag dangling from the rim. “This too. I wasn’t sure how you took it, but given your eating habits I guessed and put in all the sugar and cream.”
    She held it toward him, her eyes clear and expectant. She was so pretty, the cap almost obscenely adorable. He was dead. So, so, so dead. “That’s perfect.” He took the tea; of course, her fingers touched his. The answering wave of gooseflesh over his neck was predictable.
    She started the limousine, and he reached back to put on his safety belt. It caught, and as he was fiddling with it, he felt her all along his side, warm and soap-smelling. She brushed his hand from the safety-belt pulley.
    “Here, there’s this weird trick to it—you’ll never get it.” She had to lean in closer and her shoulder was against his chest, her upper arm against his cheek, and it should have been sort of awkward, except he never wanted her to move. “There.” She slid back, holding the buckle and pulled the belt across his chest and clicked it in place, her hand snugged tight against his hip. The blood bounced so hard and fast against the base of his cock he jumped when the buckle locked and she pulled her hand out.
    “Thank you.” He put the pastry bag in his lap.
    “You’re welcome. Southend fields, huh?” She took off the cap and smoothed her hair back. He already missed it. He would have chauffeur fantasies for the rest of his life. She reached over again, and he realized she was going to open the glove box. As she leaned over, he closed his eyes tight. The ends of her hair brushed his arm as she moved back into place and his blood rushed low again.
    “Right. That’s okay, then?” His voice was about an octave lower than usual. He cleared his throat.
    “Hire’s choice.” She smiled.
    “Do you really drive this?” She pulled away, expertly checking her mirrors to navigate the large vehicle.
    “Well, not for money. The business was my dad’s. This was our family car, though. Perfect for four kids. I learned to drive on this hoss. I think I could drive anything. Now, I drive it because I had to sell my car for rent money.” She looked over tointercept his look of sympathy. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s actually a first-class pain in my ass, and I’m giving rides to the whole freaking neighborhood and my family besides, and the gas is ridiculous, but in this town, it’s better than the bus.”
    “All your family is here?” He liked watching her