I shake my head, incredulous, a bitter laugh escaping despite the pain. “Jesus, Bea, Ezra actually lets you drive this death trap?”
“Ezra?” Her brows climb higher, surprise flashing in her eyes. “Letsme drive?” Higher still, her voice sharpening. “Why the hell would he tell me what he lets or doesn’t let me do?”
“Because you’re his sister-in-law, and he’s supposed to take care of you.” The words come out harsher than intended, laced with my own frustration, but I get the point across. I’m definitely talking to Ezra about this tin can—it’s not safe, not for her, not in this city where every corner hides a potential accident.
“Get inside, Noah.” Her command is clipped, but there’s a hint of amusement underneath, like she’s enjoying my discomfort. “My car is perfectly safe.”
She walks to the driver’s side, jamming the key into the lock. It sticks, and she struggles, her knuckles whitening on the key as she mutters under her breath.
“This is not a car,” I mutter, earning an angry glare over the car roof. Her eyes spark with that fire I both hate and secretly admire.
With pursed lips, she wrestles the key until the door finally gives after a minute of effort. Perfectly safe, my ass. Ezra’s getting an earful about this.
She climbs in, leans over, and unlocks my door. I pull the handle—it doesn’t budge. I try again. Nothing. Frustration mounting, I yank harder, hearing a screech that grates like nails on a chalkboard.
“Stop!” she yells from inside, her voice muffled but urgent. “You’ll break Betty.”
“Betty? Who the fuck is Betty?” I snap, imagining some pet expecting us inside this keychain vehicle.
“You’re holding her love handle, idiot.” She grabs the handle from inside, pushing hard, her face scrunched in effort.
“Anytime now,” I mumble sarcastically, leaning against the car to ease the pressure on my ribs.
“Shut up,” she hisses, shoving the handle with renewed vigor.
“Careful, Bea, you’ll rip Betty’s love handle off.”
She shoots me a death stare just as the door gives. I crack it open and freeze, staring at the cramped interior lit by the dashboard’s faint glow.
“I’m not getting in there.”
The front seat’s practically the back seat, the space between dashboard and trunk nonexistent. It looks like a clown car designed for torture. “I can’t sit in here.”
“Stop being such a diva and get in,” she retorts, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
“I won’t fit.”
A loud snort escapes her, echoing in the quiet lot. “That’s what they all say.”
Is Beatrice Wrong being dirty with me right now? The thought sends an unwelcome heat through me and mixes with the current pain, and it’s not a good feeling.
“I’m serious. I won’t fit.”
Another snort. “You’ll be fine. Get in.”
I glance longingly at my sleek black car by the warehouse entrance, its leather seats calling to me. Am I really too hurt to drive? Probably, but the alternative is this sardine can.
“Get in, Noah, or I’ll push your ass in here. I’m serious.”
Her threat’s hilarious—and, fuck, it’s sweet, her concern wrapped in bossiness. I bend and try climbing in. No luck, of course, my broad shoulders catching on the frame.
“Hold on,” she says, sighing. “Let me move the seat.”
She leans over, trying to push the seat back, her blouse straining as she struggles. I get a front-row seat to the show, her curves shifting with each push, and despite my pain, my dick twitches. What the hell is wrong with me?
After a few jerky tries, she nudges the seat back—barely changing anything, but it’s something.
“Okay, try again.”
