My heart just stopped. When he calls me “darlin’” in that Oklahoma accent of his, I want to slap him—a difficult task when the diminutive also turns me into a melted pool of girly-ness.
I toss my hair over my shoulder like he hadn’t fazed me. “Time for my lesson, darlin’.” I open the car door and slide behind the flat-bottomed steering wheel and into the bucket seat. If my butt was any bigger, I don’t think I’d fit within the leather-covered padding.
Keats gets in the vehicle a second later, mouth tight as he fastens his seatbelt. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Okay. Seat belt on, then adjust your mirrors.” He shows me the buttons to press. Again.
“What does this do?” I ask, pointing at one of the buttons near the gear stick. It’s like I’m in the cockpit of a jet, and it’s totally distracting being surrounded by all the switches and gadgets within reach. They look different from this side of the vehicle.
“Don’t touch that. That activates the rear spoiler. You won’t need it. We’re not going over sixty today—that’s kilometres, not miles.” He runs a hand down his face fuzz and studies me with his bedroom eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire you a driving instructor? I could even buy you a reliable second-hand car to get you started.”
“A deal’s a deal.” I hope lightning doesn’t strike me because I’m double crossing him.
“Well, right now it’s not feeling like I’m getting much out of it. Why isn’t Neil whatshisname teaching you to drive?”
I shift in the tight seat to face him as well as I can. “Neil McReedy didn’t make a pathetic deal with me to get back someone who doesn’t want him anymore.” I’m so glad I know Baby Daddy Neil’s full name now—makes him seem less made up. “You got me to divulge how Isabella felt about you, and quizzed me about her for hours. Now it’s my turn to torture you, and you agreed to grin and bear it.”
He bites the inside of his cheek, looking like he’s struggling not to argue. “Fine. But you’re learning automatic.”
“But this car can be put in manual mode. I just flick this switch, right?” I’ve been checking out its features on YouTube and the Audi website.
It takes him a second to get over how much I know about his vehicle. “Yes, but most makes and models don’t have paddles on the steering wheel to shift gears. Anyhow, you need to concentrate on your road position and road rules first. You can learn to drive manual when you’ve gotten your license…”
My face brightens up. Did he just make a way-in-the-future plan with me?
“…using your own car,” he finishes.
I frown at him, making him chuckle. The bastard purposely got my hopes up just to let me fall.
“Okay, let’s get on the road. Time to turn the engine on.” I put my foot on the brake and reach for the Start button.
“Not yet. We have to go through all the buttons and levers first. I don’t want you dry-wiping my windscreen when you’re trying to indicate.”
“You are so not cool right now.” I shift in my seat and get comfy while he runs through the car’s features again.
“Foot on the brake before you start the engine,” he instructs. He’s worse than a good dad teaching his little kid to ride a bicycle.
Something in my belly cramps. It’s been doing that a lot recently, and it’s not because of my diet. Whenever I think of Keats and babies, I get clucky. It’s scary. I even feel sorry for Linda who only wanted to bear his children. I’m discovering that this feeling-stuff business is a slippery slope to getting hurt. I mean, I’m feeling bad for other people. It’s hard enough worrying about me.
The engine purrs a low grumble as I press the Start button, but the car groans when I step on the accelerator before releasing the handbrake. Keats tenses up in his seat, his face drawn like I’m killing him a little bit at a time.
I put my foot back on the brake.
“My bad,” I say, totally horrified. I bet he reneges on our deal.
“Get out,” Keats says on cue, but I’m still surprised by his reaction.
“What? No. I studied the whole bloody rule book for weeks! I—”
“Just get out, Hay-gen. We’re swapping seats.”
“No. You owe me a lesson. Ten lessons.” I cross my arms in front of me. Let’s see if he can make me move.
His sigh is filled with frustration. “I am going to teach you to drive. Okay? But not here. Too much traffic. Now get out so I can drive us somewhere more suitable.”
I give him a sideways glance, gauging how much I can trust him. Would he drive away before I can get back in his vehicle?
I climb out—a tough task to do gracefully when the seat fits my butt like a leather glove—and rush over to the passenger side so that I am securely buckled in before he’s even in the driver’s seat.
He gives me a sidelong glance as he readjusts the mirrors. “You have trust issues, you know that?”
I tense up, instantly defensive. But a closer look tells me it was an offhand comment to him.
“Okay, I’ll drive in automatic mode so I can talk you through it.” He has a nice, deep voice with a lilt that makes me want to picture him on a horse in a cowboy hat, and nothing else. “You need to check behind you and your side mirrors the whole time. Don’t just rely on the reversing camera.”
I find myself checking him out the whole time as he reverses out of the space. He’s wearing a striped jumper today, his toned arms covered as he places one against the back of his seat and mine, eyes out the back window.
“Okay, now we change the gear to drive, and indicate because we’re leaving
