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“It’s a surprise.” I wink over at him before putting the car in drive. As I navigate away from the city, I ask about Dash’s childhood.
If I wanted him open and laughing, I picked the wrong subject.
“My parents live in town, but I don’t see them much. Usually stop by once a month to say hi to my mom.”
Once a month? The idea seems ludicrous to me for a moment, until I realize that while living in NYC, I often went that long or more without even talking to my parents on the phone. But now, after being back here for a few months, the thought of not speaking to my mom regularly, or asking my dad his opinions about the goings ons in the world, seems so depressing.
I guess I’m bumming us both out.
Time for another subject change.
“Tell me about your dream car.”
“My dream car?”
“Yeah.” I throw a quick grin at him before focusing back on the road. Not that I’m in any real danger of hitting someone. The other drivers have begun to disappear as we get farther away from the metropolis. “A guy with a pile of car magazines under his bed has to have a dream car.”
Dash sits silently for a moment, but I let him think, enjoying the view of mangroves rising on either side of the road. An indication that we do actually live in the middle of a swamp. I have a particular stretch of road in mind as we head west.
“Used to be a 1969 Mustang Boss 302.” He shifts in his seat, turning to face me. I notice a strange smile on his lips. Almost sad, or disappointed. I can’t quite place it, but the expression doesn’t scream happy to me.
What is it with my ability to pick out topics that make Dash uncomfortable?
My very own superpower. Or curse.
“My uncle had one, one time. Not for long. He sold it. But one night I crept into his garage and jimmied the lock so I could see what it felt like in the front seat. Sat there for hours, just pretending that I was a street racer tearing up the road, leaving everyone in the dust.” An energy fills his voice, and I wonder if I was too quick to berate myself. “That car was cherry. Lust on wheels.”
When I risk another glance, Dash is staring out the windshield, eyes glazed over in memory. I’m loath to break his trance, but something he said is tickling at me.
“Used to be?”
“Hmm?”
“You said ‘used to be.’ Do you have a new favorite?”
His long fingers tap on his jean-clad leg, as I wait impatiently for his answer. When a whole minute goes by, I glance to the side, curious to realize a streak of red colors the tops of his sharp cheekbones.
He clears his throat. “Maybe.”
Keeping my eyes on the road, I reach past the gear shift. My fingers grip Dash’s thigh, just a little bit higher than what is acceptable in polite society. He gives the slightest grunt when I squeeze.
“And what am I going to have to do to get you to tell me?”
“Paige.” I think he meant for his tone to sound scolding, but that’s hard when it’s pretty much a groan.
I slide my hand an inch higher, as I keep my stare forward and my foot on the pedal.
“For someone looking for flirting pointers, you’re pretty fucking good at turning a guy on,” Dash growls as he clasps my hand, keeping it from moving any farther. “A ’63 Chevy Corvette. Happy now?”
I ease my foot off the gas, risking a longer look at Dash as I pull over to the dirt shoulder of the road.
“Really?”
Even as the charming blush remains in his cheeks, Dash stares me down, fire in his eyes. “It’s a beautiful car. Plus, I’ve got some pretty good memories in one.”
Now, I’m the one blushing. I tug my hand free and shift the car into neutral, so I can take my foot off the clutch and pull the parking brake to keep us from rolling anywhere while I climb out.
“Paige?” Dash’s confused stare follows me as I cross in front of the hood, only to reach his side and pull the door open.
