Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
“We have plenty of time.” I pull away from the curb with a careful slow roll. “You want coffee on the way?”
She blinks over at me. “Already had two cups. If I drink more, I’ll vibrate through the floorboards.”
“Fair enough.” I merge onto the main road, the big diesel rumbling.
After a while, she glances over, phone screen up so I can see a little photo of the car. “So, it’s a 2019 Corolla. Sixty thousand miles, one owner, no accidents. He’s asking twelve, but the book value says more like ten. I figure if it all checks out and I can get him down to nine, I’ll take it. Thoughts?”
I want to tell her she should aim higher. I want to say she deserves better, newer. But that’s not what she wants, and I know it. “Sounds like you’ve done your homework.”
Her eyebrows arch, like she’s waiting for the lecture. When I don’t deliver, she relaxes half an inch and starts scrolling the listing again. “You’re not gonna mansplain buying a car to me?”
I snort. “Nope. I have no doubt that you’re on top of it.”
She laughs. “Was it hard for you to admit that?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “You have no idea.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then she asks, “Do I owe you anything for disposing of my old car?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “I actually owe you a little over a grand. Rick ended up selling it to a guy in Midnight Falls.”
She stares at me like I’ve just declared myself an astronaut. “Someone paid real money for that disaster?”
“They did.” I risk a glance over. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t quite believe it, like maybe there’s a catch. “I have your money in my wallet. I’ll give it to you when we stop.”
She shakes her head, and there’s something like gratitude under the disbelief. “I thought it would cost me to get it towed. I honestly expected to owe you.”
I flex my hands on the wheel, resisting the urge to say, “You don’t owe me anything.” Instead, I just nod and merge onto the highway.
We fall into a rhythm after that. She scrolls on her phone, then asks if I’ve seen the trending reality television series. It pains me, but I’m forced to admit that I’m addicted to watching reality TV. That gets her attention.
By the time we’re halfway to Houston, we’re debating who’s going to be the next one voted off. My whole body feels weirdly loose, like the usual pressure in my blood has found somewhere else to go.
“Read any good books lately?” I ask, after a lull.
She glances over, then looks away, a slow smile creeping in. “I bought the new Jackson Dixson release, but I haven’t had time to read it.”
“I’m about halfway through it,” I admit, “but I have to admit I’m not very impressed.”
She sticks her fingers in her ears. “I don’t want to hear about it. I’ve been waiting to read this book ever since it was announced last year.”
I reach over and take her soft hand in mine. “I won’t say anymore.”
She grins wider, then drops her head against the rest and closes her eyes, letting the wind from the vent ruffle loose strands of red around her face. “We can discuss it once I have the chance to read it.” My heart settles into a happy rhythm at her words.
We pull into the parking lot just a few minutes before ten, the asphalt already shimmering with the promise of a hundred-degree day. I nudge her arm. “We’re here.”
She blows out her breath. “Let the games begin.”
I park and hop out of the truck. I help her climb out and follow her over to the little black Corolla.
She squares her shoulders and heads for him, already in full negotiation mode. And as I follow, I realize that for the first time, I’m not here to win. I’m here to back her up.
The white-haired seller introduces himself to us, and Tinsley doesn’t waste time. She gives the Corolla a slow, deliberate lap, stopping at each tire, crouching to check the wells, and then standing back to sight down the body lines.
“Looks even better than the pictures,” she says.
The old man beams like a proud grandpa. “My daughter did most of the driving. She moved out, and I figured it was time for something a little more fun.” He pats the hood. “Never let me down. Kept the oil changed every three thousand, tires rotated regularly, just had them all replaced in March.”
I keep myself at the perimeter, thumbs hooked in my belt loops, trying to look casual and not like I want to wrest control of the whole process. We test drive the little car, and I honestly can’t find a thing wrong with it.