Page 92 of Glitter Rose
All over again.
EPILOGUE
PARIS
“Tell me why I need this skill when I have a perfectly good chauffeur right here?” I eye the dashboard of the dusty SUV like it might bite me.
“Because you wanted to, remember?” Knox sits beside me in the passenger seat, his body angled toward mine. “And your chauffeur might be unconscious or busy shooting zombies someday.”
“Right. Cheerful thought.” Learning to drive wasn’t on my apocalypse bingo card, but here we are, on an empty stretch of road with nothing but time and a tank full of gas. “You really know how to motivate a girl.”
I’m doing this.
Telly would be proud.
“Okay, first step. Adjust your seat.” Knox’s voice is all business, but there’s that undercurrent of softness he reserves for me. At least I think he does.
“I think I’m good.” I wiggle in the driver’s seat, trying to tap the pedals.
“No, you’re not.” He reaches between my legs, searching for something beneath the seat. My breath catches as hisknuckles brush my thigh. “Relax, princess. Just moving you up so you can actually reach the pedals.”
The seat jerks forward, and suddenly the dashboard and pedals are much closer.
“Better?” he asks.
“I can touch stuff now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He smiles at me, the happiness in it spreading through my body. It’s been three months since we escaped from the hellhole, and Knox’s face has filled out again, the bruises faded to nothing, leaving only the permanent marks of battles fought long before he met me. I trace the line of his jaw with my eyes, memorizing him for the thousandth time.
“Earth to Paris.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Focus on the lesson, not the teacher.”
“Can’t help it if the teacher’s distracting.”
“Concentrate on this.” He taps the gearshift between us. “P is for park. R is reverse. N is neutral. D is drive.”
“I know what the letters mean.” I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t living under a rock before the zombies came.”
“Knowing what they mean and knowing how to use them are different things.”
“So I put it in D and go?” I reach for the gearshift, but his hand covers mine.
“Not yet. First, you need to start the car.”
“It’s already running.”
The engine purrs beneath us, a steady mechanical heartbeat.
“Because I started it.” He dangles the key fob in front of me. “When we’re done, you’ll do it yourself.”
I slump back in the seat. “This is a lot of steps for something that’s supposed to give you freedom.”
“Freedom requires discipline.”
“That sounds like something you read on a motivational poster in a dentist’soffice.”
He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside. “Maybe. Brake pedal is on the left. Gas on the right.”
I stretch my toes toward the pedals, tapping them experimentally. “Got it. Brake, then gas.”
