Driving Me Wild

By Mia Carter

I never in a million years thought that finding a lost pair of keys would lead to adventure.

All my life, I’ve been perfectly average. Compared to the rest of my high-achieving, type-A family, it feels impossible to stand out. While I’d love to make my big artistic dreams happen, I’m kind of stuck, thanks to a bunch of lame things like “affordable rent” and “keeping the internet on.” Dreaming doesn’t pay the bills. Freelance design work and part-time rideshare driving does. And it’s nice, for the most part. Finding a passenger’s thumb drive usually means reporting, returning, yay-hurrah-good-job-me. Except this time.

This time, I put the thumb drive in my computer. Hey, I’m just trying to be helpful! Suddenly a chat window pops up and the owner of the drive is bribing me to fly halfway across the world. Today. Turns out he's the super hot fare I haven't been able to stop thinking about...who just so happens to be Logan Weiss—the crazy-hot 29-year-old billionaire known as "the most eligible bachelor in tech”. What the hell am I even doing?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Sep 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781640638525

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled Embrace…

Lost Years

Promise Me

Not So Happily Ever After

Maybe Someone Like You

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Mia Carter. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 105, PMB 159

Fort Collins, CO 80525

[e-mail]

Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Heather Howland

Cover design by Bree Archer

Cover photography by 4 PM production and Evgenia L/Shutterstock

ISBN 978-1-64063-852-5

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition September 2019

Dear Reader,

Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

xoxo

Liz Pelletier, Publisher

This book is dedicated to B, C, J, and T, for listening to my wild brainstorming, and to a different B, C, and T, for indulging my memes at all hours of the day and night.

Chapter One

Chloe

Sitting in the parking lot of a Starbucks on a blisteringly hot Tuesday afternoon, listening to a podcast about film history with my second iced Americano of the day melting into my cup holder, it occurs to me that this was not exactly how I thought my post-college life was going to go.

I’ve heard all the jokes. You know what the most important question is for an art major?

Would you like fries with that?

Hilarious.

I’m laughing so hard, on the inside.

Very, very deep down.

Well, who cares what people think about me, or my degree, or my job. I’m following my bliss. How many other people can say that?

I have to laugh. Clearly I’m not wherever that bliss is yet, because there’s nothing blissful about the sheen of sweat on my skin or the cramped feeling in my legs from sitting too long in my car. I stretch, feeling a pleasant crack in my neck, and take a drink of my coffee. Most of the ice has melted, but what’s left rattles against the plastic cup as I shake it, giving the green straw a stir before bringing it to my lips. It tastes like my faded aspirations.

It’s too freaking hot out today.

Here in Portland, Oregon, summer has definitely overstayed its welcome, slouching into September like a teenager reluctantly called in to be social with a distant and disliked relative. The sky overhead is wispy with clouds, and there’s an expectant feeling in the air that promises a rainstorm tonight. Even a storm will feel better than this humid heat.

Beyond hating those stupid art-major jokes for how insulting they are, I hate them because they’re just not true. I may not be the high-powered genius attorney that my older sister, Miranda, is or the busy, driven PR executive that my younger sister, Eleni, is, but I am, in fact, using my degree. Granted, I’m not using it right now. Driving for a rideshare service isn’t exactly the peak of my skills or abilities, but it does keep the lights on and the AC running. The income from my freelance illustration business isn’t quite up to the level of covering a full-time job, but I know it can get there. I just need a few more contacts, a few more steady gigs. My work is solid, my passion is driving me, my—

—my phone is ringing.

The Dryv app on my phone chimes with the familiar alert, a ride being requested in my area. I tap on it, take one look, and see the pickup address is less than a quarter of a mile away, closer in to downtown. Smiling at the thought of maybe treating myself to my favorite cheap sushi place tonight, I accept the fare and turn the key in the ignition. The engine of my green Honda Fit growls to life, an eager kitten that wants to be a big cat but just really, really isn’t.

Time to go make some easy money.

I pause the podcast as I pull up to the stop, scanning around for someone who looks like they’re looking for me. It would be easier to find my passenger if he or she had put a photo on their account, but my rider, L. W., has left it the default gray silhouette. At least my car, license plate, photo, and location are displayed on the rider’s side of the app, so I shouldn’t be too hard to find.

There.

My attention is caught by a tall, dark-haired guy in a very nice suit at the front curb of the building. He’s hard to miss, mostly from his height and frame, and with his cell phone pressed to his ear and a leather bag slung over one broad shoulder, I guess that he’s getting ready to go on a trip. But as he moves, something in my primal lizard-brain kicks in. He’s hot, and that suit on that body is definitely something I have no complaints about. The frown on his rather handsome face only barely eases up when he sees me and starts heading my direction. I force myself to stop ogling him and check my app. He’s requested a ride to the airport, which is a familiar twenty-minute route for me. Easy.

Handsome Suit Guy slips his broad-shouldered body into the back seat and, without even ending his call, asks, Is there any way you can make it to the airport in fifteen?

I stiffen at this. Yes, I say, but—

Great, Handsome Suit Guy says. Then the phone is back up to his ear. No, that’s what I’ve been trying to explain to him, the metrics just don’t support it—

Well, then.

That’s fine. Being on a call? It’s not the first time it’s happened. Certainly better than an uncomfortably long, rambling life story or a weird, backhanded compliment from a creepy older man. And oh boy, do I have a long list of those.

I check my mirrors and pull out into traffic, tapping at my phone to adjust the route as best I can. There are a couple of alternate routes I can take that might shave a minute off here or there, but it all depends on traffic. I’ll at least try to do my best.

A quick glance in my rearview mirror confirms that he’s buckled in, which I should’ve checked before pulling out. Safety first, and all of that.

I hesitate. Something about his face seems familiar to me. I can’t place him, though. I am kind of terrible with faces. Maybe I’ve seen him somewhere or had him in my car before. That must be it.

I drive on.

His call continues.

Despite his frustrated exchange with whomever is on the other end of the call, he isn’t yelling, or being an asshole. I guess that’s a point in his favor. He’s talking about metrics and data and someone named Dan who has gravely misconstrued something. I have no idea what’s going on, but I can’t deny that his voice is very nice. Warm and confident, it’s expressive and masculine without being aggressive. He’d be good reading audiobooks, I think. Yeah, I could listen to him read me the phone book. With a voice that nice, I wouldn’t make it much further than Triple-A Electric before I had my hands up under his shirt if he was reading it in person.

I zoom through traffic—safely, because my rating is still important and having a car accident is probably not a great way to stay employed—and thank the merciful gods that it’s not super busy on the freeway. We’re making great time, all things considered.

After only a few more words in a rather frustrated tone, he ends the call.

Sorry about that, he says.

My body relaxes a little at his apology, and I smile. It’s all right. Sounds like you had something going on.

Mmhm, he replies. Yeah. A mess. And it’s only going to get messier. Hope you’re having a better day.

I pull up at a stoplight just as he says this. A chance look in my mirror shows that he’s smiling a little, and our eyes meet. That movie thing, when people’s eyes connect, and time slows down, and everything’s soft-focus and nice and the birds sing? That doesn’t happen. And yet I can’t help the curl of quiet pleasure that the light in his eyes provokes.

Wow. Not just a nice voice, but a nice everything.

Full mouth framed by the faintest suggestion of stubble, sweet brown eyes under slashing brows, expressive features that are angular and compelling, rather than model-perfect. Dark hair, glossy and touchable. A bit overlong, but just right for running fingers through or tugging.

Oh damn, I am thirsty.

I like what I see—add to all that perfection that he’s a broad guy, and tall…

Yeah, I say, feeling a warm slide of guilty pleasure trail down my spine. I think it’s getting better.

I might be imagining things, but there’s almost, almost, a hint of a suggestion of a flush to his cheeks. Flirting with the riders, though?

Tone it down, girl. He’s a stranger. You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you.

Hands at two and ten, eyes on the road. The light is taking forever. I flex my toes in my worn canvas shoes, resisting the urge to fidget.

Are you, um, hot? Shit, shit, that did not come out the way I— I mean, the air conditioning is on, but I can—

It’s fine, he says, and I can hear the smile in his reply. It makes my body respond in ways that are probably inappropriate but look, look, it’s not like I’m going to announce this to him. I can keep it together.

I can, right?

Okay, I say, as the light turns green. You just let me know if you need anything.

Like, perhaps, me.

Thanks.

There’s water down in the basket, too, I say, putting my foot on the gas pedal and continuing down the road. And lollipops and mints.

Wow, he says, and I can hear him rummaging around in the two-compartment basket I’ve put down in the footwell between the seats, just for those items. Full-service.

I aim to please!

Oh, honey, I think. I aim to please? What am I, a grizzled brothel owner in the 1960s?

I sigh and try my best to quash that feeling of gutting embarrassment as I focus on the road. My hands are a bit sweaty on my steering wheel, the fabric of my denim shorts riding up just a bit since I’ve been sitting too long. Bad choice for driving, but my leggings had all been in the wash, and it’s so fucking hot today I want to take all my clothes off and—

So do you— he starts, then clears his throat. Is this your full-time job?

Why does a guy in a nice suit care about that?

He’s not the first person to ask, though. If I hated small talk, I wouldn’t be driving.

Sort of, I say, as I check my blind spot and use my fucking blinker to merge into the lane beside me on the freeway, unlike approximately 97 percent of the rest of the drivers out. I also have a freelance job. So, I get to work from home.

Ah, he says. That must be nice. I have a home office but I hardly ever use it.

I shrug. It is. And it’s stressful. Be a lot more secure with a nine-to-five job and a steady paycheck, but I can’t complain.

You just did, I think.

Did you draw these? he says. I can hear him flick the edge of the laminated card I’ve hung off the back of the headrest. It’s a sign, with my name and info about the snacks, water, AC, heat, and other stuff, hopefully to boost a five-star review at the end of my ride. I decorated it with some watercolor illustrations of trees and hills, and Mt. Hood.

Yeah! I smile, wishing I could just pull over, turn around, and stare at his face, rather than see it in glimpses in my mirror. I did.

It’s really good, he says.

His praise makes me want to purr a little, maybe. It’s too hot out for warm-fuzzies, so it’s just fuzzies, but I’ll take fuzzies, thank you very much.

You did the hand-lettering and everything?

Yeah, I say. I’m— I do graphic design and illustration. Brochures, logos. A little of this, a little of that.

And you can’t find a nine-to-five? he asks, shifting a little in the back seat. My company is looking for web and interface designers, you don’t happen to have any of that on your resume, do you?

Flattery will get you everywhere, Handsome Suit Guy. I smile.

No, sorry, I reply. Tragic. I can just imagine what torture it would be having to work in close proximity to him for forty hours a week. Closest I have is a web comic I do, just this little thing, for fun. Gets a few hits, a little ad revenue here and there.

That is very creative, he says. You have a gift.

"And you can take as many lollipops as you want, I say with a smile and a glance up into his reflected gaze. Though you don’t have to flatter me to earn them."

He laughs at this and shakes his head.

With a smile still warming my cheeks, I drive on. This is nice, though, this comfortable silence. If I was on a date with someone like him, I’d undoubtedly be my usual awkward self. So many times in life I’ve felt like I missed some critical lesson about How To Girl and How To Adult, because I am terrible at it and hate it and always feel like I’m faking my way along. But these exchanges, these moments, they’re so fleeting. It’s like a one-night stand, but in the daytime, and I get paid and don’t have to have sex.

Okay, it’s not like a one-night stand.

He doesn’t make me feel nervous, though. On a date, he definitely would. He’s way out of my league.

We’re about five minutes out from PDX, if my app is anything to go by.

What time is your flight? I ask.

It’s fine, he says. I have time. I was just in a hurry.

It’s okay, I say. The airport stresses me out, so I get it. Better to be early than late. That never ends well.

Sounds like there’s a story there.

I laugh, reaching up with my left hand to ruffle the hairs off of the back of my sticky neck as I nod. There is a story. I’m not sure he wants to hear the sordid details or if he’s being polite, so I give him the condensed, one-act play rather than the full Les Miserables.

I had a…friend invite me on a trip to Canada, I say. Got my passport and everything. He stood me up and called me three hours after our flight to tell me he wasn’t going…among other things.

That’s pretty awful, he says, and it sounds sincere.

I nod. Yep. It was.

It wasn’t a friend, it was a boyfriend, in point of fact. But that’s a story for another day, and not for him. Hot Suit Guy does not need my tale of woe in four-part harmony.

Three minutes out. I take the proper exit and head for the signs for

departures and arrivals

.

Anyway, what do you do?

I, uh, I work at a tech company, he says. Is it my imagination or is his voice a little guarded?

Oh, I bet you have people asking you all day to fix their computers, I reply, as casually as I can manage. Does your family bug you all the time?

He’s a little quiet for a moment. No, he says, at last.

I can feel his pleasant openness close off, just like that. A change in the warm air between us, somehow. Family must be a subject that’s best avoided—I don’t have time to pry, because we’re coming up on the end of the ride.

Just here, or—

Next one down, he says. Please.

I find the sign, weave through the stop-and-go cars around me, around everyone else who’s here to pick up or drop off, and find a place to park. Thankfully, there’s a section for taxis and rideshare cars, so I pull in there and put on the brake. As I do, I tap the arrived button on my app. It chimes happily, and something in his pocket chirps an answer.

Five stars, I think. 10/10, would ride again. Drive. Whatever.

Thanks, he says.

His voice feels like a caress. And my body feels painted with a curious sense of regret—skin hyperaware of the fact that the only thing touching me is the interior of my car, not the soft touch of a hand. How long has it been since I’ve simply been touched by another human? Too fucking long. If I was standing, the thought of him touching me might make my knees a little weak.

Good thing I’m sitting down, I guess. Not like him touching me will ever happen.

The sunlight is blaring right into my eyes. It’s as good an excuse as any to turn around and look back at him. He’s getting the long shoulder strap for his bag, those big, dexterous hands fitting it over one shoulder. He straightens his tie, fingers traveling down the dark red silk—and then his burnt-caramel gaze meets mine. His eyes are warm and sweet, and there’s a hint of a smile on his mouth.

Getting