Page 20 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

There are no sidewalks, and fallen leaves are piled up on the side of the road. I kick through them, enjoying the crunchy sound, until the toe of my boot hits something solid.

Then I walk in the middle of the road.

Five minutes later, I see it—the unmistakable silhouette of a Dodge Charger parked on the lawn of a tired home.

It’s yellow.

And I see the For Sale sign in the window.

I skirt around the car, running my hand along the lines of the hood, feeling more excited than I have in a long time. My father designed a series of model cars based on real-life vehicles and the muscle cars were always my favourite. Ashton has always been drawn to pure speed, but I like the roar and the rumble and the feel of power at my fingertips.

“Help you out?”

I look up with surprise, so fixated on the car that I didn’t notice the man walking toward me. “You’re from away,” he says. It’s not a question and I recognize the wariness of locals when they first talk to me.

Although, I’ve never talked to locals who look like him—tanned and leathery and very wrinkled, like he’s gone years without using sunscreen.

“If that means I’m not from around here, then yes. I want to buy your car.” There’s no reason for small talk.

He makes a noise that may be a laugh or might be phlegm caught in his throat. “Nobody wantsthat car.”

“I do.”

“You trying to tell me you want the car just because of the pretty colour?”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m telling you that I’m interested in this car.”

“That’s a lot of car for a lass like you,” he says scornfully.

“It’s a 2007? Or a 2008? Dodge Charger SRT8 with a Hemi engine. V-8. Looks in good shape.” I give the tire a kick. “Except for the dirt.” The bright yellow paint is covered by a thin layer of dust.

“2007,” he says. “Are you sure you can handle this much car?”

“Do you know who I am?”

He shrugs. “Should I? I’m Coy Schmidt. Most folks in town know who I am. If you want it, lass, you best have a look.” He pops the hood and I bend over it eagerly.

The engine was just as I described and, already, I can imagine the rumbly throb. I ask the right questions and give the right answers because Coy disappears into the house to grab the keys while I climb into the driver’s seat.

The inside is pristine, the leather soft and dark brown, and smelling of cleaning product. “Cleaned it just last weekend but the crap in the trees made a mess of the outside,” he complains as he opens the passenger door.

“You mean leaves?”

“That and the other.” I have no idea what else is falling from the trees and Coy’saccent is so thick that it’s hard to understand him. But I understand completely when he hands me the keys. “Let’s see what you can do with it,” he says.

I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face as I start it up.

The entire car vibrates. “Why are you selling this?” I marvel as I grip the gearshift.

“The wife hates it. I spend my days on the boat, and she says I’m not to spend my nights driving around in my fancy car looking to pick up women.”

I glance over with surprise. “Do you pick up many women in this car?”

Coypshaws. “No.”

I’m not about to get in the middle of this when all I want to do is try this baby out. “Hang on,” I warn.

“Now, just a sec here,” Coy sputters as I rev the engine. The car practically leaps like it’s bursting from the starting blocks, leaving tire marks amid the mud and wet leaves.

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