I turned toward the window so he wouldn’t see the full meltdown happening on my face.
I cleared my throat and defaulted to competence, my emotional bunker of choice.
“For the record,” I said lightly, still watching the river, “I’m not just a random cardigan in this situation. I finished my doctoral coursework in preservation and archival studies and took the comprehensive exams. I’m fluent in three languages. I can reconstruct a fifteenth-century binding pattern from memory, and I once corrected a tenured historian in front of a room full of people who hated me for it.”
I risked a glance at him. “So, if we’re doing… whatever this is… I can be useful.”
More useful than I’d ever been allowed to feel.
And if I was being honest with myself—which I tried to avoid before my third dose of caffeine—I had been desperate for something like this. Not the kidnapping attempt and interrogation, but the current humming under my skin. The world was larger than climate controls and overdue notices. There were things worth chasing.
I’d spent years preserving other people’s adventures. I had never expected to be handed one.
He smiled. “I consider myself fortunate to have been handed so formidable a partner.”
My stomach did another somersault.
About an hour into the drive, I finally worked up the courage to ask, “So… where exactly did this car come from?”
Arthur hesitated just long enough for me to notice. “I bought it two months ago.”
“You bought a museum car.”
“Yes.”
“In New York.”
“Yes.”
“With traffic.”
“Yes.”
That earned me the faintest exhale through his nose. Not a laugh, but an acknowledgment of absurdity.
“My father died last year,” he added after a beat. His tone stayed even, but it had a tight edge underneath it. “He didn’t see value in things like this. Considered them unnecessary and excessive.”
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes on the road.
“So, you bought it to spite him?” I asked gently.
He considered that. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”
“But.”
“But he would have disapproved. And that may have been a small motivating factor.”
That explained a lot. The car wasn’t a flex. It was a statement. Grief wrapped in chrome and leather.
“Well,” I said, nodding toward the dashboard, “nothing says unresolved paternal tension like a vintage German death trap.”
He glanced at me, brows knitting. “It’s not a death trap.”
“It doesn’t have airbags.”
A cute crease formed between his brows. “Air… bags,” he repeated carefully.
“You know. Safety feature? It inflates? Keeps you from slamming your head into the dashboard if you crash?”
