“Hmm . . .” she answers.
I don’t bother to hide my smile because, damn, I’d like her to look at me the way she’s staring at my car.
“It’s a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429 ...” I shove my hands in my pockets and lean sideways, getting in her space. “7-liter, 375-horsepower V-8 ... 0 to 60 mph in 5.3 seconds.”
Evie’s smile blooms bigger and brighter with every word I say before she turns her face up to mine.
Your eyes are so pretty.
She blinks. “It’s John Wick’s car.”
I nod, then shake my head, motioning to the custom license plate that saysCHEF*KSS. “No. It’s Chase Beckett’s car.”
Damn, I could stare at her all day.
She holds out her hand. “Give me your keys.”
I stand tall again, immediately shaking my head. “No fucking way.”
This girl is wild. She doesn’t want me to drive—she wants to drive my car.
She raises her brows. “Give me ... your keys.”
“No fucking ... way,” I spit back in the same cadence.
But it’s in this moment that the most delightful thing happens. This beautifully mean-spirited little sprite asks me nicely.
It’s a miracle on Magnolia Street.
“No, but seriously, please, Chase? I love this car so much. I’ll be your best friend.”
Gah, she said the last part all singsongy. I’m toast. If she only knew what that sentence just did to me. Or how the way she’s looking at me with those amber-brown eyes and her perfectly blush lips could get me to commit crimes.
My whole body feels like that dude’s hand in thatPride & Prejudicemovie my sisters made me sit through for the entirety of their puberty. I want every part of me to touch her, but I can’t.
“Okay,” I relinquish, handing her my keys, our fingers brushing. “But I drive on the way back.”
She snags the keys with a squeal before all but bouncing the whole way to the driver’s side. I follow her. Because when she unlocks the door and reaches for the handle, I gently guide her hand away, opening it for her.
Evie’s face meets mine, but I smirk. “It’s not a date. I’m just a gentleman. And a feminist. You can open mine next time.”
She rolls her eyes for the hundredth time since I’ve known her before she slides inside and I close the door, walking around to the passenger side and getting in.
“Where are we headed?” she breathes out, stroking the steering wheel.
Stop making it sexual, you asshole.
“Hollywood Farmers’ Market.”
I buckle in and narrow my eyes because I’m feeling like she may want to try and go a little fast. No sooner do I think it than this girl has the engine revving and we peel out of the driveway making a hard right, tearing ass down the street.
Men love fast cars. We love growling engines and danger. But I’m in touch with my feminine side. So I clutch my hand over my chest and scream.
“Fuck. What the fuck, Evie!”
She’s laughing, not a care in her F1 world.
“Slow down,” I shriek again as she takes another hard turn, and my hand slaps the window for support.
