"...It has paddle shifters."
I laughed, loud and unladylike. "Oh my god. Get out. I’m driving."
"No!" He looked offended now. "I can do this. I’m a quick learner. You literally said I was a natural on the horse."
"Daisy has autopilot. This truck does not."
"Walk me through it. Come on, Winnie. I’m sober enough to drive, but you’re drunk enough that you shouldn't. Let me be chivalrous."
I looked at him—the determined set of his jaw, the way his hands gripped the wheel like he was preparing for war. It was endearing. Stupid, but endearing.
"Fine," I sighed. "Left foot on the clutch—that’s the pedal on the far left. Push it all the way in."
"Okay."
"Key in the ignition. Turn it."
The engine roared to life, that familiar, throaty rumble that I loved.
"Okay," Beau said, sounding confident. "Now what?"
"Keep the clutch in. Move the stick to first—up and to the left. No, further left—there."
He got it into gear. "Easy."
"Now," I said, bracing my hand against the dashboard, "slowly let off the clutch while you give it alittlegas. Slowly, Beau. You have to find the bite point."
"I got it, I got it. Smooth is my middle na—"
The truck lurched forward violently, bucked like a bronco coming out of the chute, and died with a heart-breakingclunk.
My head snapped forward, then back against the headrest.
"Smooth," I deadpanned.
"Shut up," he muttered, face flushing even in the dark. "My foot slipped."
"Restart it. Try again. Less gas, more patience."
It took three tries. Three tries of whiplash-inducing lurches, the engine stalling out, and Beau cursing creatively under his breath. But finally, on the fourth attempt, we managed a jerky, terrifying lurch onto the main road.
"We’re moving!" he announced, knuckles white on the wheel. "I’m doing it!"
"You’re in first gear doing twenty miles an hour. You need to shift to second."
"Absolutely not. We are staying in first. First is safe. First is my friend."
" The engine is screaming, Beau. Shift."
"If I shift, we’ll stall and die."
"If you don't shift, the engine will explode and we’ll die. Clutch in, stick down to second, clutch out. Do it."
He did it. It wasn't pretty—we jerked forward hard enough that my seatbelt locked—but he got it into second.
"I hate this truck," he said through gritted teeth. "Why do you drive this? It’s manual labor just to get to the grocery store."
"It keeps me awake," I said, watching him concentrate. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was nice, actually, seeing him flustered. It made him seem less like the polished heir and more like... just a guy trying to impress a girl.
