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Unable to deny the invitation, I slide into the low car. Surprisingly, I don’t need to adjust the seat to accommodate my long legs. Like this sweet girl was waiting just for me.
I almost groan out loud at the feel of the smooth leather steering wheel beneath my palms.
“Nice right?” Paige slips into the shotgun seat, grinning at what I’m sure is an expression of pure ecstasy on my face. “But take a look in the rearview.”
I reach up, gently tilting the mirror until it hits my eye line just right. That’s when I realize what the issue is with the ’63 Corvette.
“Blindspot.”
She chuckles, low and happy, the sound a caress against my ears. “Exactly. Needless to say, the ’64 doesn’t have a split rear window. But because of this design, collectors love it. Mom can make a nice chuck of change off each one she restores. A few of these helped put me through college, so I am immensely grateful for that beautiful blindspot.”
Paige trails her fingers over the stitching in the seats, which are also covered in brand new, supple leather.
I find myself leaning closer to her side of the car, just to keep my eyes on the paths her fingers are taking. I can almost imagine we’re out on the road, the engine roaring to life. I’d keep one hand on the wheel and rest the other on the gear shift, except for when I’d reach over to capture Paige’s soft palm and lay it to rest on my inner thigh. She wouldn’t need to do anything more than keep it there, but if she wanted to stroke my leg the way she is the upholstery, I’d never complain.
When my dick stirs at the fantasy, I clear my throat and try to distract myself.
“So, your mom taught you all she knows about fixing up Chevys?”
Shit, that’s not the best distraction. The image of Paige dressed in a tank top and grease-stained jeans, bending over the engine of a car, pops into my mind, and suddenly, I’m rock hard.
“She wishes. Mom would’ve loved if I’d been interested in cars the way she is. But even though I like driving them, and I find the history of them interesting, fixing them up has never been appealing to me.”
A strange mixture of relief and regret fills my chest.
“When I was younger, Mom would insist I come out to the garage, so she could teach me. But more often than not, I ended up sprawled in the backseat of whatever car she was working on reading my book. Eventually, she just accepted my disinterest, but I guess she still liked me hanging out with her, so she’d always make sure to have a pillow and green pens, so I’d keep reading out here.”
The content smile curving Paige’s lips is mesmerizing. She has a kind of distracted magnetism that pulls me closer.
“Why a pillow and green pens?”
Paige sifts in her seat, so she’s facing me head-on, a silly grin plumping her cheeks. “A pillow for my head, so my neck didn’t get tired while I was reading. And green pens because I would always write notes in the margins of the books I was reading.”
“Book editor even back then?” I imagine a young Paige, chewing on a green pen, brow furrowed as she reads, the sounds of her mom rebuilding an engine in the background.
My childhood is like a darker reflection of hers. There were lots of days I snuck over to my Uncle Mike’s chop shop, trying to watch the men work from my hiding spots, fascinated with all the parts and components required to make a car run. Whenever I was discovered, I was more likely to get slapped than receive an invite closer. Luckily, I was too fast to get caught often. Hence the beginning of my nickname. Only right that my speed continued once I got behind the wheel.
I stole my first car at the age of fifteen.
Not liking the route my memories are driving down, I focus back on our conversation.
“Why not a red pen? I thought that was classic for you editors.”
Paige sighs, tilting her head to the side to lean on the headrest. “Red always seemed so judgy. Who was I to tell them what was right or wrong? I just wanted to make suggestions. Green is a softer color. It’s up for discussion.”
The weird logical way her brain works fascinates me. “Still, it’s pretty ballsy to write all over a published book.”
She chuckles. “That’s only half of it. Sometimes, when I thought I had really good commentary, I would actually mail the book back to the publisher with all my notes in it!” Her cheeks start to glow with warmth, and she presses her hands to them. “A couple actually responded,” she groans out this last sentence, clearly embarrassed by her childhood confidence.
“Really? What’d they say?”
She waves a hand as if to dismiss the past. “Oh, just something about thanking me for my passion about the stories. And appreciating my comments. I bet they laughed themselves silly reading all my ramblings, if they even bothered with them.”
I smile, enjoying her embarrassment, and the way her flush still creeps down her neck, spreading over her collarbone to disappear beneath her skeleton leotard.
“You put yourself out there. That’s pretty brave, Paige.”
She’s back to stroking the stitching on the leather seat, her eyes locked on her fingers. “Yeah. I used to be brave.”
