Page 264 of Rush

He presses a button on the console and a little latch drops revealing a slit where a CD can be inserted, I pull it out from my bag, “Elena’s Mix, Vol 2”.

“You didn’t? Really?” he says in disbelief.

“You made it special for me, I thought it was fitting.” I put the CD in and“Kiss Me”by Ed Sheeran plays through the speakers.

He grins from ear to ear, dimples on full display. “Thought you might show up with one of your weird vinyl’s instead.”

I shrug. “You’re lucky it’s not Japanese jazz and obscure French disco.”

He nods, clearly pleased. “Damn, that’s exactly what I wanted to listen to while I charmed the pants off you.”

“Lucky I’m not wearing pants.”

His eyes drop to the bare strip of thigh between my skirt and socks. His jaw twitches, eyes darkening.

Hmm. There it is.

“Charmed you so hard you didn’t even bother with pants—easy access.”

I turn toward the window, biting back a smile. “Not before dinner, I’m starving.”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“So where are we going?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises,” I deadpan.

“Good thing I’m not taking you to one of those murder mystery dinners then.”

I shoot him a look. “Are you?”

“No,” he says, smiling. “But now I know what to book for Valentine’s Day.”

“Wow. Already planning that far ahead?”

He taps the wheel, turning toward me with a lazy smile. “Yeah. Always. How’s this for planning ahead—us, twenty years from now. You still dressing like a sexy librarian. Me with a bad hip and a white beard. You yelling at me for eating too many hot dogs.”

“Broderick, you’re already old,” I tease, knowing he’s on the cusp of his birthday.

He fake gasps. “Wow. I let you in my car, and this is the abuse I get.”

“You’re thirty-two.” I give him a look. “Almost thirty-three.”

“Exactly. But who’s counting?”

“Apparently not your knees.”

He laughs—loud and real. “Ten years isn’t that bad. We’re basically the same age. In spirit.”

“Sure,” I say dryly. “Spirit of a dad who drives a hybrid and watches the finance channel for fun.”

“Hybrid?” he scoffs, caressing the steering wheel like it’s sentient. “Don’t let her hear you, El—thisis a Mustang. Have some respect.”

I laugh.

We hit a red light, and he slows to a stop. The car idles in that thick, charged kind of quiet.