There must be comfort in thinking he’s on his way to winning back Isabella.
“It was nice to meet you,” I say to Mrs McAllister—another lesson in etiquette learned from TV.
Heather McAllister smiles up at me and I genuinely hope she calls the number I gave her.
***
“Nice car.” I run a finger along the shiny roof of Keats’ black Audi sports coupe, parked just outside the gate on the road. The vehicle shines like a beetle in the autumn sun—obviously well-maintained, its chrome wheels and detail are clean and glossy.
“Thanks. I’ve had her less than a year—took me ages to decide what to get.”
He presses the unlock button on his keys and we open our respective doors. I have to bend my legs a lot to slip into the low passenger seat. Immediately, I’m enveloped by the new car scent I’ve hardly ever smelled, mixed with leather from the upholstery of the vehicle. It’s so luxurious inside the car that I fist my hands on my lap to stop them from touching the leather and leaving marks on the immaculate interior.
“What else did you consider getting?” I’m sure I’m acting like a country mouse gawking at all the buttons, lights and features of his ride.
Keats shrugs as he presses the button to start the car—no need to insert the key in this fancy vehicle. “Maybe a Beemer or a Merc. Or a Porsche.”
I can’t help the snicker that escapes as we join traffic.
“What?”
“Nice choice of cars…for a poser.”
“I suppose you think I should’ve gotten a souped up Nissan or Ford to go hooning?” He guns the engine and the luxury sports car rumbles beautifully around us as we go over the speed limit. “Is that how you lost your license?”
“I did not lose my license. I never had one.”
“You can’t drive?” He scoffs, changing gears so effortlessly, it’s sexy how well he can control the powerful vehicle. “How old are you?”
“Shut up. I couldn’t afford a car growing up.” Honestly, why would I ever want my own driver’s license when I just know I’d be the type to drive angry, or do my make-up on the highway. I’m really doing a public service by not getting behind the wheel.
“And now?” Keats probes.
“I’m used to public transport. Besides, you need to do like a million hours of driver training these days and fill in a log book to get a license, don’t you? Doesn’t seem worth it.”
“So you can’t drive?” The curve of his lips is too sexy and too amused for my liking. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Not really the best qualifications to give car advice, is it.”
I make a rude sound. “Please. Dad was a car mechanic.” When he wasn’t drunk. “So I was around cars a lot.”
“Do you know how to fix cars, too?”
“Yep. But not these new cars. The cars my dad fixed never had internal computers.”
“Hm,” Keats says with a thoughtful smile.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. This just reminds me of what they say about male gynaecologists.”
I get goose bumps at the fact he’s thinking about lady parts right this moment while I’m only a handbrake away from him. “What do they say?”
“They’re like mechanics who can’t drive.”
I huff, making him chuckle.
“So, how have you been?” His light blue eyes flick to me briefly before he resumes watching the road, and I’m treated to a view of his profile.
“Good.” I finally give in and touch the round air vents on the dashboard of his expensive toy. “You?”
“Better than the last time we saw each other.” He indicates and turns into the car park of the Convention Centre—it’s only a short drive from their home, and, as usual, Brisbane’s weekend traffic is light.
“How was New York?” I ask him.
“All right.”
“That’s all you have to say about the home of Sex and the City?”
His brow lifts a fraction at the mention of my all-time favourite show.
“It’s my dream to go there,” I tell him, still surprised by his underwhelming response to the Big shiny Apple.
“It just wasn’t as fun going alone,” he admits through a tight mouth.
“Oh.” Knife through the heart alert! Eject, eject before he can twist it!
But the car is still moving, so I have no choice but to stay in my seat.
“Isabella and I had talked about going together.” His lips form a harsh line as his expression becomes stony. With a turn of the wheel, he slides his sports car into a space, and kills the engine. “You decided yet if you’re helping me?”
Last time he saw me, I told him I’d consider it. I haven’t quite made up my mind. Would more time with him be worth the heartache? Watching him chase after Isabella now is more painful than seeing her pine after him in high school.
Keats turns in his seat to look at me. There are those bedroom eyes again. Is this why he’s a successful banker? He just turns on the charms—what am I saying? They’re on all the time—and he gets what he wants. How did Isabella manage to resist when there’s a constant curve to his lips, like he’s on the verge of a smile or a seduction?
I remind myself to breathe, the air knocking about the sides of my constricted throat. Stuff it. It would hurt either way. I might as well have some fun. I’m only pretending to help him stop the wedding anyway.
“Well?” The slight movement of his Adam’s apple is the only indication he’s not as sure of himself as he appears.
“Yes. But keeping in mind I’m possibly the only Isabella expert who’d agree to help you, I have one condition,” I say, as if I was still undecided.
“What is it?”
I run a manicured finger along the Audi’s shiny dash. “You teach me how to drive. Using this car.”
