Page 107 of Rebel Summer

He studied me for a moment too long before saying, “Yeah. Everybody on this island has their windows open, so we can’t draw attention. We’ll drive slow so it sounds like it’s a golf cart going twenty-five miles per hour past their house. Got it?”

“Your rules make you sound like a little old lady,” I said.

He shot me an annoyed look. Before he could change his mind, I ran around to the other side of the car and slid onto the bucket seat of the dark interior. The smell of leather oil and the snug proximity of the seats inside the car drew me in like a moth to a flame. Dax slid in beside me and shut the door, enclosing us. Almost reverently, he put the keys in the ignition.

“Moment of truth,” he said.

He turned the key. The engine growled to life with a low purr, producing a smile on Dax’s face, and some sort of manly moan of pleasure spewed out of him.

“Should I leave you two alone for a minute?” I asked, running my hand along the dash, taking in all the details.

Dax grinned, leaning his head back against the headrest with a sigh. “I did it.”

I watched him with a smile. “Dax?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s pretty freaking cool,” I said, pride for him practically billowing out of me, which I, of course, had to tamp down with some teasing. “Just remember who handed you the wrench to put in that driveline.”

He blinked before rolling his head toward me, as if he were coming out of a daze. “We’re about to take the car of my dreams, that I built, on a test drive, Caroline. That’s a pretty bold move to be talking dirty to me right now.”

My hands lifted to cover my heated cheeks while the hum of his low laughter scattered goosebumps around my skin.

Dax put his arm around the back of my seat, his fingers brushing past the hair at my shoulders as he looked behind him and ever…so…slowly…backed out.

I let out a dramatic gasp, my hands flying to the dash.

Dax swore, slamming on the brakes while his hands flew off the wheel. “What?!”

Laughter in the form of nervous, high-pitched giggles erupted from me. Leaning forward, I hid my howling face behind my hands while he swore again. If this was living on the lam, sign me up, because so far I was having a great time.

He growled lowly before he backed out of the garage, closed the door, and crept toward Main Street. Just before we entered the street, he stopped, looking down the road illuminated by a row of yellow lamp posts.

“Last chance to back out, Ivy.”

The use of my name on his lips jarred me slightly, grounding me for a moment when I had been somewhere lost in the clouds.

Were we actually doing this?

As Dax’s eyes waited patiently on mine, my mind raced to find the turning point that had brought me to this moment. The crash had been the tip of the iceberg to a summer I had no idea I needed. The list. The tattoo. Dax. Learning to separate myself from who I was and who I’m becoming. The baring of souls while sparks flew above us.

And between us.

Life was messy. Jobs were messy. People were even messier. But for the first time since I’d left the island ten years ago, I had an attachment to my life that I’d never felt before. One filled with connection and friendships and people I loved. Other than a job, I had nothing in Tennessee to go back to. Before now, my existence had been more about marking things off of a checklist—hoping what I accomplished measured up to an unknown standard. My decisions had always been controlled and concise—black and white. But tonight, I was dipping my toe into the gray.

Maybe tonight would end up just being a funny story to tell. Or maybe there would be consequences. But my heart was ready to leap from my chest, the smile on my face refused to fade, and I knew there was nowhere else on earth I’d rather be than driving Dax’s car around the island. Come what may…I was here for all of it.

I mean…obviously I hoped nothing would happen in three minutes.

“Wait,” I said, my fingers fumbling with the radio dial on the dash. “We need theme music.”

Since it was Dax’s maiden voyage with his car, I set the dial to the oldies station—the kind I imagined grandparents everywhere listened to in their cars. And when “Centerfield” by John Fogerty began playing, it just felt right.

“Now I’m in,” I said.

He still looked unsure. “You don’t have to do this. I’m giving you the hours either way. The car started, and that completely rocked my world. That’s enough for me.”

“I want to do it.”

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