The Rolls takes the last bend into town like it's gliding. Demetrius adjusts his grip on the wheel and glances at the passenger seat where I sit silent while my brain plays naughty scenarios about those hands and that car.
Well, the backseat of that car.
"You have something to say about the car."
It's not a question, it's a preemptive accusation, and my mouth is already open to deny it before I register that he's almost smiling.
"I was going to say nothing."
"You were going to say something," he says with that self-confidence I hate more than anything about him. "You've been making a face at the dashboard for the last ten minutes."
"That's just my face."
The corner of his mouth moves. "It's not."
"Fine." I shift in my impossibly comfortable seat. "It's ridiculous. It's an obscenely big, obscenely expensive, obscenely comfortable car, and it plays a little song every time I touch the wrong button on my door, and I don't know what half thesepanels do, and I love it, and I hate that I love it, and there you go."
From the backseat, Agatha makes a satisfied sound.
Demetrius says nothing. He holds the almost-smile for a beat, then looks back at the road. I'll be damned if he's not smiling just a little.
"But I get it. It fits you and Agatha the way normal cars probably don't," I add, before he can say anything else. "That's all."
"Of course," he says, in the voice of a man who knows he's won something and is being decent enough not to say it out loud. "I'm all about practical considerations when I choose a vehicle."
I look out the window at the Saltford Bay oaks and pointedly say nothing more.
The waterfront is already filling up by the time we turn into the lot nearest the piers. Demetrius finds a spot right away, and I refuse to be annoyed by it, though it's a near thing.
I get down from the car while Demetrius brings Agatha's chair around, and then we have the argument we have every single time she needs the wheelchair over the past week. Granted, her progress has been nothing short of spectacular, but she's still in recovery and walking for a long distance is out of the question.
Our argument follows a very predictable format. Agatha declines it. I explain that it is medically necessary. She informs me that she would appreciate not being treated like an antique. I tell her I agree that she is not an antique, and that nevertheless her hip is only four weeks post-operative, and that she will be miserable tonight and difficult tomorrow, and then I tell her it's one hundred percent her choice.
She considers it, although most of it is for show. She concedes, in the manner of a head of state agreeing to a minor treaty modification.
Demetrius holds the chair. His face is entirely composed throughout this exchange. He knows better than to get involved.
She's right to concede, for what it's worth. The piers are two blocks from the lot and the waterfront is cobblestone, and the crowd has already gathered three rows deep around the speaker's platform.
We move through it. Demetrius pushes the chair and people turn to look. There are whispers. Some people point and others snap some quick pictures with their phones.
My stomach does an unpleasant thing at the whispers that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with self-preservation. I've never liked being the center of attention and it feels surreal to have all those eyes turned in my direction. Even if no one is really interested in me.
The mayor's platform is set up just past the ribbon line, and the commemorative plaque is still covered, a square of dark fabric draped over whatever's underneath. There are folding chairs arranged in a loose arc for the front row. A refreshment setup from the Knitters Club is visible just past the pier entrance, and I can see the corner of what has to be one of Mrs. Primrose's brownie trays from here, and for a split second I want nothing more than to just go stand over there and eat brownies and wait for this to be over.
Then Agatha turns and beckons me forward with two fingers.
I try to hang back. There's no good reason for me to be at the front.
"Maddie." Her voice is pleasant and final in equal measure. "Come stand with me."
Demetrius, from behind her chair, catches my gaze. His expression doesn't say much. But he moves to make room on Agatha's left side, and that's its own kind of answer.
I come forward, ever the considerate nurse, but my cheeks catch fire and my entire face is firetruck red.
Up at the podium, the mayor is shuffling notes. He is a minotaur, broad-shouldered and enthusiastic, the kind of community figure who sweats through big public moments but means every word he says. He taps the microphone twice, then smiles wide at the assembled crowd.
"Good morning, Saltford Bay."
