Page 66 of My Real Love Affair

“What?”

“That spot. It’s so narrow.”

“It’s a normal spot.”

“For a normal car! This thing is not normal.” I gestured at the sleek sports car. “It’s wider than a normal car. And lower. And more expensive than my life.”

Austin was trying not to laugh. I could hear it in his voice. “You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”

“Take it slow,” I muttered, inching forward at approximately one mile per hour. “Just take it slow while parking a car that costs more than most people make in five years.”

“Yeah, and if you hear a crunch, back up.”

I was sweating. Actually sweating. My hands were slick on the steering wheel as I tried to gauge the distance between the car and the concrete pillar that seemed to be getting closer and closer and?—

“A little to the left,” Austin coached.

I turned the wheel. The car lurched.

“Your left. Not the car’s left.”

“They’re the same left!”

“Are they though?”

I shot him a look. He was grinning, clearly enjoying my suffering.

“You’re terrible,” I said.

I finally managed to get the car into something resembling a parked position. It was probably six inches from where it should be and definitely crooked, but it was in the spot and not hitting anything.

“I did it,” I said, my voice slightly hysterical. “I parked your stupid car.”

“I’m as shocked as you are.” He was definitely laughing now. “Come on. Let’s get out before you decide you need to straighten it.”

We climbed out, and I looked back at my parking job. It was objectively terrible. But the car was intact, and that’s what mattered.

I pulled out my phone to call a ride, but Austin caught my wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Getting a ride home. It’s late, and I’m exhausted.”

“Come up first.” He said it casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Have a wind-down drink. Decompress from that disaster of a family dinner.”

“Austin, rule seven. No overnight stays.”

“Who said anything about staying overnight?” He gave me that devilish smile that was becoming dangerously familiar. “Just a drink. One drink. Then I’ll call a service to take you home.”

I should say no. I should stick to the rules we’d established. But the truth was, I didn’t want to go home yet. Didn’t want to bealone with my thoughts about Armand’s words and Austin’s hurt and how good it had felt to make him laugh.

I was still riding the high of driving a freaking Ferrari. I never dreamed of putting that on my bucket list, but I did it. And once I got the hang of it, it was addicting.

“One drink,” I agreed.

“That’s my girl.”

“Not your?—”

“I know, I know. Fake girl. Whatever.”