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“You come across uptight, figure you never lifted a hand for anything.”
Staring at her with my back to the door. “I give off that impression?”
“No offense.”
“None taken. My parents never handed us anything. Yeah we lived a privileged life, private school, nice clothes, but we had to work and learn the family business. My brother Savio had it worst, trying to live in my father’s shadow.”
“He’s the one married to Mckayla. At the house we stopped at that day.”
“Yeah.”
“Renato is married to Sonya, right?”
“Yeah. Renato and I are the closest.”
“I can tell.”
I shifted the car forward, then stopped at a red light. I lived a few miles from my parents, in an exclusive area. Privacy was extremely important to me, which was the reason I never brought a woman home or to meet my parents—unless I felt she was the one. Nyla being this close to me made the hair on my neck stand up. My dick jumped, and we hadn’t even kissed. It confused me.
“Everyone you’ve dated … are they like Angelina?” Nyla interrogated me unexpectedly.
“Like Angelina how?” My gaze aimed at her, driving off to the destination in Edison Park at Calabresi Cars. Parking around back, turning off the ignition, and slipping the seatbelt off, waited for her answer.
“Blond, self-entitled, can’t-take-no-for-an-answer.”
“Angelina’s smart in business, anything outside of that has caused problems. Come on, I have something to check out.” Seeing the team unloading the cars, Nyla started to open the door, and I frowned.
“Sorry, forgot you have a thing about doors.”
“Women shouldn’t open doors if a man is around.”
She held her hand up to salute, then giggled at my frown. “You do have manners.”
“Let’s go.” I took her hand out of habit, and we both peered down at our interlocked palms. She smiled. “Have to make it look good,” I explained.
The smile fell from her face, and I wondered what if it had something to do with my words.
Shaking hands with my delivery driver, he explained the papers were in the office, and I could take the keys and car for a ride now.
“How much are you planning on selling it for?” Nyla released my hand, running her palm over the hood of the car.
“Between eight-hundred and a million.”
The Reventón was a rare and exclusive car; only a select few in the world had one. The vintage ‘66 red Ford Mustang sitting next to it brought a smile to my face.
Nyla whistled, catching sight of the vehicle. “Has to be worth a good $100,000—especially if the engine is good. Not too many miles,” Nyla commented.
I settled my stare on her. “You know about cars?”
“My Dad and I used to work on his cars. I’m not just a pretty face,” Nyla said, waving her hand at the car.
Feeling my phone vibrate in my pocket, seeing my friends asking if I was coming to the race.
“Time to go.”
“I thought you had business to do.”
“This is part of the business.”
