Page 48 of Kiss My Glass
“Second biggest,” he says. “I sold a Ferrari 550 for half a million a year back, but that was for an old friend of Dad’s. I never thought I’d get a chance like that again. My sweet spot has always been classics between fifty and a hundred grand. Easy to find, easy to add value, easy to sell.”
“So, who bought the Rolls? Another old friend of your dad’s?”
“Friend of a friend of a friend.” Danny’s grin is slightly sheepish but mostly gleeful. “Never made so many rapid-fire phone calls in my life.”
“And they had nearly four hundred grand in cash just lying around?”
“Well, yeah,” says Danny, like it’s not an insane amount of money to part with in one go.
“Wow,” he adds. “My commission is ten percent…”
He gazes at me, eyes wide, as the reality of that sinks in. “Frankie! I made thirty-nine-grand in one afternoon!”
Wow, indeed. Myyearlysalary is eighty. I’m happy for Danny, but this is a world so far removed from mine it might as well be on an alien planet.
But now’s not the time to kill Danny’s buzz. That would be churlish.
“Drinks on you at The Silver Saddle?” I smile.
“Drinks for everyone,” he says, firing up the BMW. “And curly fries all round.”
ChapterTwenty-Six
DANNY
My mind’s buzzing so hard trying to process what the heck just happened that I’m unusually quiet on the drive to Verity. It’s only when we pull up outside the sports store that I realize Frankie’s been quiet the whole way, too.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Sure.” She gives me a quick smile. “It’s just been a weird afternoon.”
“Surreal,” I agree. “Do you think it was a dream? Am I actually asleep?”
She pinches me.
“Ow! Okay, not a dream.” I rub my arm. “Good to have that cleared up.”
The sports store, Ball’s, has taken the place of a men’s outfitter that I remember from my childhood. There are still old-fashioned mannequins in the windows, now wearing an array of sports attire, from fishing waders to tennis whites.
“Do you need special clothing for pickleball?” I ask Frankie.
“If you want to waste money,” she replies. “Shorts and a T-shirt are fine as long as you can move freely in them.”
“My old friend, nylon sports shorts,” I say. “We meet again.”
Frankie side-eyes me, amused. “Store closes in twenty. Let’s go shopping.”
I come out as the new owner of a pickleball paddle and a set of four yellow plastic balls with holes in them like spherical Swiss cheeses. I also got persuaded by Hank, the owner of Ball’s(whose last name is Peterson), to buy a T-shirt that says, “Big Dink Energy”. I have no idea what that means and am afraid to find out. I decided to stick with my running shorts, which are a merino-lyocell blend. Hank was dubious about their sweat-wicking capability, but I held fast to my no-nylon principle. Hank also complimented us on our coordinated outfits, which made Frankie immediately buy a pink-and-white argyle patterned golf shirt. It clashes with her yellow pants but looks amazing in all other respects. I had to fight down the urge to kiss her passionately right there in front of Hank. Much more reluctantly, Frankie also bought a pair of sturdy walking shoes. Hank urged her to break them in before attempting a hike.
We stow the goods in the BMW and walk down to The Silver Saddle. Frankie’s still kind of quiet and I am most certainly still over-stimulated. For half a second, I consider slapping the bar in front of Brendan and declaring, “Bartender! The drinks are on me!” But one look from him re-activates my common sense, and I let Frankie do the ordering. A beer each and curly fries for now, and four burgers and more curly fries to go. Extra spicy pickle for Shelby.
Brendan’s wearing his usual black T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt is tight and emphasizes the bulge of his biceps and his pecs. He has multiple tattoos, including one down the inside of his right forearm of a skull with a sword through its mouth. When he hands me my beer, the skull judges me for wearing city-boy clothes. I’m tempted to say, “This city boy just scooped a cool forty-grand. How’s your afternoon been?” What I say is, “Thanks” and pass over enough cash to cover everything plus a hefty tip.
“Frankie! Danny!” A cheery voice hails us as we’re looking round for somewhere to sit.
“Okay,” murmurs Frankie. “Now I know how Chiara got back in Brendan’s good books.”
Shelby’s best friend, Jordan, is waving at us from a booth. Next to her is Chiara.
