Page 9 of Come Fly with Me

“Sixty, but how’d you know that?”

“My dad was a mechanic,” I tell him quickly. “Is this the original paint? Roman red? They produced about fifteen hundred in this color. This was the first year you couldn’t get the Corvette in an automatic transmission. When they upped the horsepower, it was too powerful. It had to be manual.” I look down, Jake’s hand resting on the gearshift. “Shit, this is a four-speed, not standard at all.”

Jake cuts in, “You gotta stop talking.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got a raging hard-on.”

I laugh out loud, my hand covering my mouth, trying to stifle the fact that he was able to catch me off guard. My eyes shoot to his crotch, and I look away quickly.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Get a good look?” he asks, winking at me.

“Just drive.”

Jake backs out of the garage, and within a few seconds we are on the road, the wind blowing in my hair and the sun warming my skin. It feels amazing and I lean my head back and close my eyes.

“Where you from, Taylor?” he asks, his voice cutting into the peacefulness of the ride, but his accent now more apparent than it had been when we first met.

“Minnesota. Minneapolis. I thought we were doing that whole yes or no question thing?”

“The car seems to relax you. You haven’t asked a question in at least five minutes.”

“Where are we going?” I shoot back, but this time it’s me winking at him.

“There’s my feisty girl, but I’m not telling you because this is all about me showing you the Sydney I love, and what fun would it be if I told you everything ahead of time?”

Maybe it’s the car, maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s this sudden feeling of freedom that fills my body, but I honestly don’t care where we are going. The air smells of the ocean, and the sun beams down in a way that melts my cares.

“You got a swimsuit in that bag?” Jake asks, his thumb motioning to the trunk of the car.

“Nope.”

“Perfect because that’s our first stop.”

We pull up outside of a small surf shop with the name Soaking Wet Surf Shop emblazoned on a sign above it, and again I chuckle.

This guy is turning me into a fifteen-year-old boy.

“Something funny?” he asks, a small pitch of insinuation in his voice, baiting me to respond. “A mate of mine owns this shop. We’re gonna go in and pick out swimsuits for each other, and then I’m gonna teach you how to surf.”

“Okay, first of all, you are not picking out a swimsuit for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re going to pick out the most inappropriate suit you can find. Ass floss, and there’s no way I’m wearing it.”

“And you could do the same for me, but I trust you. That’s where we differ.” He reaches over and tucks a few strands of loose hair behind my ear, causing goosebumps to prick my skin instantly. “And what was the second thing?”

“What?” My word comes out somewhat garbled, my thoughts a mess because fuck me if him touching me isn’t totally screwing with my plan to avoid men at all costs.

“You said first of all. What was the second thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, we’re good then? You pick my suit, I pick yours, and we meet up outside the changing rooms.”

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