FYI, you are very far from my favorite person right now. You’d better pray something changes between now and the next time I see you.
8 SHARP!!!is my final text.
We might get a lot of tire kickers on Saturday, but we’ve also made some of our biggest sales.
I slide the straps from my shoulders and step out of my dress, annoyed when my phone doesn’t ping immediately with an apologetic text.
“Twat.”
“What was that?” Raif calls from the living room. I forgot the walls are like bloody rice paper.
“I said, what kind of car was that?” I pull open my underwear drawer.
“The one outside?”
I pause and almost add,No, the one in your pocket.But then I remember the male species is wired very differently. Like, with faults.They might only be able to seat their arse in one car at any given time, but those with the cash to do so like to have options.
“Yes, that one.”
“A McLaren.”
“Aren’t they like, super expensive?” I ask, rifling through the drawer’s contents. “Two-hundred thousand new, I heard.”
“You like cars?”
“No. One of my brothers was talking about it last week.” Brin was wanking on and on about the model he’s thinking of buying, like he’s the billionaire of the family and not Whit.
“Was that Whit?”
“No,” I call back, my brows furrowing.
“Brin?”
“Nope.”
“One of the other two, then.”
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, not for his ears. He’s done his homework.
“But this one isn’t new,” Raif calls.
“Oh.” Finding the bra I want, I drop it on top of the dresser. “I suppose that makes more sense.” Spending two hundred grand on a car is crazy pants. “My dad was always an advocate of buying used. He said the minute a car passes from the showroom floor, you’re out of pocket.” The familiar ache is swift to rise at the thought of my lovely, long-gone father.
“Your father passed?”
“Yeah.” My fingers fold around a pair of oyster-colored lace knickers. I shove the cotton bra back, pulling out the one to match, without letting myself think too much about it.
“I’m sorry. The death of a parent is…”
“Inevitable.” Or so Polly says. The natural order of things. Chucking the underwear on my bed, I grab a tank and a pair of shorts from the next drawer, intending to grab a shirt from the hanger on my way out.
“But hard, all the same, especially when you still need them.”
The sorrow in his tone catches me off guard. I guess he knows what this feels like. “So how much does a used McLaren set you back?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on things I can’t change. I pull my tank over my head.
“Used? I don’t know. But I can tell you the price of a classic model.”
Classic? But the car looked brand new. “Go on, then. How much?”
