Page 127 of The Wife Situation

“Let’s do it,” he tells me.

“Remember, the world is watching,” Weston reminds us.

Easton shakes his head as we walk through the B & B. Summer is on the phone and gives us a wave as we exit out the front door.

I stand on the porch, looking at the car. “I can’t believe it’s here.”

“I don’t believe in serendipitous events, but?—”

“So, you’re letting me drive?”

He meets my eyes, taking a pause. When he lifts the keys and places them in my outstretched palm, I clamp my fingers around them and pause.

“Seriously? This isn’t a cruel joke?”

“What do you think?” He smirks.

I jump into his arms, wrapping my arms around him. He holds me against him, lifting me with his strong hands under my ass as I kiss him. Carefully, he walks us toward the car.

“Thank you,” I say.

He carefully sets me on the ground and opens the door for me. “Please don’t make me regret this.”

I place my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll drive it like I stole it.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Then, I slide inside, sitting behind the red steering wheel with the cobra in the middle. I’m in the twilight zone, driving this car in Valentine. It’s more like a dream come true.

Easton climbs into the passenger side, opens the glove compartment, and pulls out a pair of Ray-Bans.

“I think I’m having déjà vu,” I tell him as he buckles.

He leans over, captures my lips with his, and smiles against my mouth. “I don’t even fucking think so. Unless my brother kissed you.”

“No, he didn’t. He knew better.”

I crank the engine, and it roars to life. I press the clutch, putting it into reverse. Rocks kick up when I give it gas, peeling out. The power beneath my hands is like nothing I’ve ever felt, and knowing what this car represents makes me smile. Weston chose it because he knows Easton better than anyone.

“She’s a beast,” I say, patting the red dashboard as dust trails in our wake.

We pass the veterinary clinic, and Cash Johnson—the owner and doctor—unloads bags from the back of his truck. He stops to watch the car in action. Hell, I would too.

“Already turning heads,” Easton says, rolling down the window.

I do the same and hang my arm out the side.

We stop at the end of the driveway; I look both ways, and we take off down the winding mountain road. The smell of fresh air fills the car, and Easton’s messy hair blows in the wind.

“Woohoo!” I scream out the window to nothing. No buildings. Just open land. And cows. And us.

I floor it, and soon, we’re hugging curves, driving eighty miles per hour to town. The power under my hands, combined with the mean growl of the engine, puts a smile on my face. The only regret I have is not being able to show my father.

He’d have been as impressed as me, especially considering the significance of this model in muscle car history. The thought nearly takes hold of me, and I push the sadness away.

“Everything okay?” Easton asks, reaching over and squeezing my shoulder.

Heseesme, and I appreciate how he notices me when most don’t.

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