Nora raised an eyebrow and reached over, flipping open the clasp.
Nestled among tissues, a compact mirror, a tube of lipstick, and a roll of Certs peppermints, was a hardback with a cracked spine. Drawing it out, Nora inspected the cover like it might singe her fingers.Holy crap.
There was a close-up photograph of a man’s hand clasping a woman’s, the image tight and intimate. Something about how his fingers curled around hers—possessive, urgent—made Nora’s face go hot.
There was no mistaking the intent.
It wasn’t just a handhold.
It was sex.
Angsty, glossy, unapologetic sex.
Her eyes drifted to the ring on the man’s finger—bold, gold, and centered with a strange symbol she recognized immediately from her world history unit: the ankh, the ancient Egyptian sign for life. Eternal life. Fertility. Vitality.
On the cover model’s hand, though, it didn’t feel sacred.
It felt carnal.
Like a promise.
At the top of the cover, Jacqueline Susann was stamped in bold, black, uppercase letters—like the author was daring you to judge her.Just below the photograph, in a sultry serif font, sat the title:The Love Machine.
Nora swallowed. For a book her mom had casually thrown into a road trip bag, this thing was…loaded. And she thought she was being rebellious withThe Godfather.
“Mom, you’re kidding.” Her voice carried the packed, dramatic weight of a teenage girl who had just discovered she was trapped in a car with her mother—and her mother’s racy romance novel. Nora looked across at her mother as though she’d just confessed to smuggling something indecent across state lines.
Leanne laughed, the same full, unbothered laugh that used to echo through the kitchen when she was baking or dancing to Dusty Springfield on the radio. “Don’t knock it till you try it, hon. I promise—we’ll get throughThe Godfatherfirst, but that one’s next.”
Nora groaned, flopping back in her seat like a martyr.
Except…
She wasn’t entirely uncurious.
Because truthfully?
She had seen the book before—on her mother’s nightstand more than once, the cover half hidden underGood Housekeeping. She’d even flipped through it once while her parents were at a dinner party—going just enough to hit a page that made her cheeks burn and her pulse race. The idea of reading it in front of her father was mortifying. But here, with just her mother and a long stretch of highway?
If her mother was game, she’d play along.
After all, what eighteen-year-old girl headed off to college wasn’t curious about something calledThe Love Machine?
She smirked. “Fine. But I’m doing voices.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Leanne replied, almost serious. “But first—the Mafia.”
Nora opened the book to read, smoothing down the pages with her palm.
“A quote from Balzac: ‘Behind every great fortune there is a crime.’” She paused, glancing out toward the cars that sped past them. “Do you think that’s true, about fortune and crime?”
This was something she’d wanted to ask in class but had been afraid her teacher would think it was a silly, immature question.
“No.” Leanne gave a subtle shake of her head. “Some people earn their fortunes honestly.”
“But are those fortunes considered great?”
Leanne shrugged. “Depends on your definition of great.”
