Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
He was such a liar. Cool with it? Not even close. It went against every instinct, but he’d kept his word and handed her the keys on Saturday morning, watching begrudgingly as she unlocked the door and settled into the driver’s seat. She’d been quiet as they’d gotten ready to leave, but her subdued vibe transitioned to elation as he directed her out of the hotel parking lot. Ren opened up Max’s speed on the frontage road, letting out a giddy whoop.
“Ease him in gently,” he said, leaning forward and feeling oddly jealous from where he’d been banished to the passenger seat. “You don’t need a brick foot right off the line.”
Ren adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. “I told you I drive all the time on the farm. I know how to handle an old car.”
“An old—” The words sent him back against the seat, insulted on Max’s behalf. “This Mustang is a finely tuned machine. A classic.” He reached out and put a consoling hand on the dashboard. “Don’t worry, Max. She didn’t mean it.” The engine rumbled in reply.
“His model is from the 1970s,” Ren said, matter-of-factly, in that know-it-all voice that had always set his teeth on edge. “He’s beautiful and you’ve kept him in great shape, but objectively he’s an old car.” She pursed her lips, thinking. “He’s the same year as our manure spreader, I think.”
Wow, the insults kept coming. “He’s also getting your butt to Nashville, so a little respect, please.” Fitz looked at the map and glanced up ahead. “Take this left turn.”
She flicked on the turn signal, and a twinge of irritation colored her voice when she asked, “Is the plan to stay on surface streets the entire drive?”
“It wouldn’t be if you stopped taking the turns so wide. He’s a Mustang, not a school bus.”
“Why’d you let me drive if you were just going to grumble at me the whole time?”
Fitz didn’t need the years of mandatory child-services therapy under his belt to get that he was being a backseat driver and, frankly, sort of a dick. They were already in a weird place with each other after his mental meltdown last night. Unfortunately, he liked being in the driver’s seat—literally and metaphorically—and knew it was unlikely he’d be able to shut that down over something as enormous as another person driving the car he’d saved up for years to buy.
But Ren was right: He either trusted her to do this or he didn’t. Yes, there had been the car she’d cut off in the parking lot, and she’d sped up instead of conservatively slowing down for two consecutive yellow lights. She had a lead foot and tended to hover on the right side of her lane, but they’d been on the road for more than twenty minutes and it had been fine, hadn’t it?
With a glance down at his phone, he propped it in the empty ashtray where she could see the map and sat back in his seat.
“Get in the right lane and merge up ahead.”
“We’re getting on the freeway?” she asked with a hopeful lift to her voice.
“Sure. You’re right, you don’t need me babysitting you. Just go where the GPS tells you.”
“I’ll watch the speed and keep Max safe,” she insisted, smoothly shifting lanes and guiding Max up the on-ramp. “You won’t regret it, Fitz, I promise.”
“I know, Sunshine. You’re doing great.”
The freeway was blessedly empty, and as the miles rolled seamlessly beneath them, Fitz felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen, felt his worries ease.
And after three consecutive nights of crappy sleep, exhaustion started to settle in.
Max’s engine rumbled comfortingly all around him, lulling him into a heavy trance. Traffic was light, it was an easy route. Ren could handle herself, and they’d be in St. Louis before he knew it.
He yawned. It would be fine.
A truck horn blared so loudly it sounded like it was inside his cranium, and Fitz startled into consciousness, bolting up as the semi barreled past them, sending Max hopping sideways in the lane on a reverberating blast of air.
“Fitz! Wake up!” A hand reached blindly for the front of his shirt, shaking him. “We’re going to die.”
“W-what?”
Ren clutched at his collar. “I don’t want to die!”
Adrenaline sent a bolt of electricity into his veins, and he was immediately alert, looking frantically at the situation around them. They were in the middle lane on a three-lane freeway somewhere between Kansas City and St. Louis, completely boxed in on all sides by irate drivers. A woman in a cream Cadillac swerved around them, leaning out her window and yelling, “Get off the road!”
“What’s going on?” Fitz yelled over the commotion.
“Everyone is freaking out! It was so calm earlier, and all of a sudden all these cars showed up!” A raised truck came right up on their bumper, the driver leaning heavily on the horn. Ren screamed, slapping her hands over her ears.