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“It’s about an hour,” I said.
“Definitely within my range.”
“I’m not bringing Connor back here,” I said, throwing on a black cardigan. “Just dinner.”
“After dinner comes dessert.”
I shot her a look as I grabbed my purse.
“Come on.” She rifled through her magazine. “You’re trading fuddy-dudd
y Mark Watts for Connor-flipping-Drake. This is like watching a brand new rom-com after staring at PBS for two years.”
“I’m so glad my love life is your entertainment.”
“The farm girl and the rich city boy,” Ruby said. “Episode One: the first date.”
“Good night, Ruby.”
She blew me a kiss, and I went out.
At the bottom of the outside steps, Connor waited. His back was to me, broad beneath a fitted dress shirt, tapering down to a narrow waist in tailored dress pants.
His ass is perfect.
I blinked at my own errant thought, and composed my stare just as he turned around.
“Hey,” he said, and the slow smile that spread over his face was better than a thousand compliments. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you,” I said, my gaze caught on his handsome face. Thick brows, a broad mouth. His eyes were like chips of emeralds fringed by long lashes. A shadow of stubble over his strong jaw.
“Ready?” He offered me his arm.
My fingers slid around his elbow, feeling the smooth skin and muscle beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeve. We walked toward a brand-new-looking sports car, parked at the curb and begging attention. Dark gray with bright red brakes underneath chrome wheels. The front grill made me think of a snarling dog baring its teeth.
“Wow, this is yours?” I said.
“Just got her last month,” Connor said, opening the passenger door for me. “She’s pretty sweet.”
“I love the color.”
“The gun metal gray isn’t standard. I had her custom-painted.”
I sank into luxurious leather and a potent mix of new-car smell and Connor’s cologne.
“I don’t know much about cars,” I said when he got behind the wheel. “What kind is it?”
He grinned and revved the engine. It sounded like a rocket ship readying for takeoff. “Dodge Challenger Hellcat coupe. 707-horsepower, 650 pound-feet of torque.” He glanced at me slyly. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not really.”
Connor laughed. “You don’t have to know her specs to enjoy how she drives.”
He shifted into gear and expertly navigated off the curb and down Pleasant Drive, his car purring beneath us. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, almost afraid to touch anything this expensive. I was a farm girl who rode a bike all over town. Feeling I’d been miscast in a movie, I sought comfort in the beautiful text that brought me here in the first place.
“Did you tell me your major the other night at Yancy’s?” I asked. “Was it Creative Writing?”
“Economics.”
