40. June #2
His mouth curves up, and he shakes his head.
I wish I could tell what he was thinking.
If maybe I’ve impacted him the same way he’s impacted me over the last little while.
Little things like this make me wonder if I have.
But then he ghosted me, and…unable to hold his gaze, I peek through the car’s open door, taking in the rich black leather and clean smell.
Heck, it looks brand new. He’s clearly taken care of the inside just as much as the outside. It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. “
“Did you name her before or after I introduced you to Quasimodough?” I ask.
Bending closer, Ford crowds me even more and whispers, “What do you think?”
Something lodges in my throat. Esmerelda.
The love interest from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Is it a coincidence? That he chose a name related to my sourdough starter?
Call me a lunatic, but I doubt it. Ignoring my racing pulse, I give in and turn my head toward him.
We’re so close he could kiss me. Will he, though? Does he want to?
My tongue darts out, wetting my lips before I put some more space between us and give the car my attention once more.
“Hello, Esmerelda.” I run my hand along the edge of the window, then dip forward and peek inside the open door.
The intricate stitching along the leather seats is gorgeous.
I run my fingers along the seam, taking it in when I notice a bunch of crumpled bills on the dashboard.
There’s at least five hundred dollars here. “What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s people’s way of appreciating Esmerelda.”
My brows furrow.
“Helps encourage people to show up, even if they don’t stand a chance of beating me or Rome.”
“Cocky,” I note.
“Confident.”
My mouth lifts. “Did you say Rome races, too?”
“He prefers to build the cars more than race them.” His smile broadens. “And it’s a good thing, too. He’s the only one capable of beating my ass.” Ford leans closer again, like he can’t help himself. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”
I grin up at him. Okay, it’s official. Ford Harden is charming as heck when he wants to be. Not that I didn’t know it before, but tonight? Tonight, the man is a force to be reckoned with.
“But, yeah,” he continues, oblivious to my screaming ovaries. “Sometimes he races.”
“Like tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“You worried?” I taunt.
“Nah.” He chuckles. “I have my good luck charm with me, remember?”
With a laugh, I say, “I’m glad you’re confident.”
“This time, I’m being cocky,” he clarifies dryly. “Rome’s actually really good.”
My cheeks pinch, and I fight the urge to rub the feeling away. I can’t help it, though. Ford’s just so…
I shut down the thought before it has a chance to take hold and turn back to the car. “I bet it’s fun,” I murmur. “Racing.”
“It’s definitely a high,” he agrees.
I run my hand along the dashboard, appreciating the pristine black surface and translucent glass.
Not even a fingerprint, let alone an actual scratch, mars the perfect surface.
Well, except mine. I almost feel bad for touching her.
I pull away slightly and bring my fingers to my lips.
She really is his baby. “Seriously, she’s beautiful, Ford. ”
“Yeah, she really is.” Something in his voice convinces me to peek up at him. When I do, I find his eyes locked on me. A loud horn blares.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Race is about to start.”
“Oh.” I move away and reach to close the door, but he stops me. With a question gleaming in my eyes, I turn to him. “What?”
“Come with me.”
“With you where?”
“I want to show you what it’s like,” he explains. “Why don’t you ride with me?”
“What?”
“Ride with me.”
Nibbling the edge of my lip, I look around the various cars lined up as rap music blares through the speakers. Honestly, I feel so out of my element it’s not even funny. And sitting in the passenger seat instead of standing on the sidelines? Pretty sure it’ll only feed my anxiety.
“You scared?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but a softness, too. Like he genuinely wants to know. The question is, what will he do with that information?
“Is that even allowed? Bringing a passenger?”
He quirks his brow as if to say, come on.
Good point. The man literally makes the rules around here. If he says it’s allowed, it’s allowed. Still, I’m not convinced this is a good idea.
“Okay, have you ever wrecked it?” I ask.
“Twice.” My jaw drops. With a laugh, he adds, “But I won’t wreck tonight.”
“Oh, you won’t?”
“Nope.”
“Because you have power over those kinds of things?”
“Precious cargo,” he clarifies with a wink.
I laugh and look around the crowded street.
I’m not sure why. Ford talking to a girl isn’t exactly out of the norm.
Even after everything that’s happened between us, from the outside looking in, I’m just another nobody.
Whether it’s an actual fact or an easy assumption for everyone around us, the perception stays the same.
Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe he’s slowly shifting me from his precious little secret to something else? Something…more?
“You sure I’m not taking another girl’s seat?” I ask.
“Are you asking if I let any girl ride with me?”
My heart squeezes behind my sternum. “Are you saying you don’t?” I whisper.
His cocky expression makes my stomach tighten before he pushes away, giving me space to, you know, breathe. The hinges are smooth as butter as he opens the passenger door a little wider and urges me inside. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
I must be delusional because, for some reason I can’t figure out, I actually give in and climb into the passenger seat.
Instead of closing the door behind me, he leans into the cab, crowding me against the cold leather and stealing my breath all at once.
He smells good. Leather and sandalwood. My eyelids flicker as I attempt to stay present instead of getting lost in his warm emerald gaze.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. He’s close.
Maybe a little too close. His chest skims mine, and the heat of his body warms me as his fingers graze the seatbelt.
Slowly, he moves the nylon around me, latching it into place, but not before his fingers brush my hip.
“There. Gotta take care of my precious cargo, right?”
My precious cargo?
With a gentle push, he closes the door behind him and rounds the hood, taking his place behind the steering wheel.
The race is going to start any second now.
It has to. It’s the only explanation as to why everyone’s climbing into their own race cars while the audience moves to the side, leaving the black asphalt free and clear of people.
I wipe my sweaty palms against my pants when engines begin rumbling to life, including Ford’s.
Is this a bad idea? It feels like it might be, but I can’t convince my tongue to work.
To tell Ford I’d prefer to stay and watch with the rest of the crowd.
Even if I did, would he listen? I’m not so sure.
He has a way of pushing me out of my comfort zone, and even though I want to hate him for it, it’s only making me fall harder.
Shifting the car into gear, Ford pulls up beside a blue car. I couldn’t tell you the make or model of this one, either. It’s pretty, though. Leaning forward in the seat, I try to catch a glimpse of the driver.
“Keep your head back,” Ford warns.
I press the back of my head to the headrest, my attention catching on a stoplight at the edge of the starting line. It flicks from red to yellow, and I wait with bated breath.
With his gaze glued to the light, Ford counts down. “Three, two—”
He shoves in the clutch and slams on the gas as the light switches to green.
My body thrusts back into the seat. Lurching forward, he shifts to second in an instant, the engine purring like a damn tiger.
It vibrates through the hood, into the passenger seat, and through my body.
My fingers dig into the edge of the leather cushion.
In goes the clutch again, followed by Ford jerking the stick shift into fourth, skipping the third gear entirely.
Adrenaline rushes through my system as we peel ahead, taking advantage of the long, straight path in front of us.
When we pass a bright red sports car, my neck threatens to snap from the view.
Holy crap, we’re hauling!
I grip the seatbelt strapped across my chest, holding on for dear life while simultaneously pulling a laugh from the man beside me.
“Grab the oh-shit handle,” he orders.
“The what?”
Moving his right hand from the gear shift between our seats, he reaches over the center console, tapping the handle above the door before settling back behind the steering wheel.
Patient. Relaxed. Like we’re on a leisurely Sunday drive instead of hurtling toward our demise.
“There’s a turn coming up,” he explains. “Grab it.”
A turn? At this speed? We’ll freaking die!
In goes his left leg again as he pushes the clutch, shifting into a lower gear and tapping the brakes to keep us from spinning out of control.
Holy crap!
Blindly, I reach up, fumbling for the oh-shit handle like my life depends on it while refusing to tear my attention from the road.
I don’t know why. It’s not like I can do anything from the passenger seat, but I can’t help myself.
We have to be going at least a hundred miles per hour, maybe more.
Or at least, we were before Ford tapped his brakes to slow us down for the first turn.
“Only crashed twice, huh?” I choke out. My fingers squeeze the oh-shit handle with all my might as Ford takes the turn at what feels like top speed.
I clench my butthole, my muscles turning to cement, and wait for the car to start rolling.
It doesn’t. Heck, the tires never leave the blacktop. They don’t even squeal.
Okay. Okay. We’re okay. I’m not dead. We’re not dead.
I compel my lungs to release the pent-up oxygen as Ford picks up speed again.
We. Are. Flying!