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“My truck is that one,” I said, pointing at the brown pickup behind us. I walked to the passenger side with her, opened the door, and waited for her to get in.

She looked like she was thinking again, backpedaling, probably. “You know,” she said, “I think I’m actually good. Thank you for offering, but it’s not urgent. I don’t want to derail your day.”

Derail my day? I’d drive my truck off a cliff if it meant that I got a few moments alone with her, but she didn’t need to know that.

“You’re not. I need to go to town anyway and you need a ride.” I tried to make it sound transactional—like it was strictly business. She didn’t respond to me, but she responded to business.

“No, it’s fine—”

Yeah, I was done with that. “Get in the truck, Ada.” My voice was more demanding than I’d intended; Ada’s spine went ramrod straight, her eyes finally met mine, and she was staring me down.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do on Saturdays,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I do when you’re being ridiculous,” I said. I didn’t say things like that. I didn’t act like this, but she was just so…frustrating. “It’s a ride to town—not a marriage proposal.”

She didn’t like that response, but I wasn’t backing down. We stared each other down for a few seconds longer. I liked her eyes on me—even if they were pissed off. It was better than the cool looks I’d been getting from her all week.

“Fine,” she bit out before getting in the truck.

“Remind me to check the weather in hell,” I muttered to myself as I shut the door.

“I heard that,” Ada said.

“Good,” I retorted.

I walked around the front of my truck, opened my door, and positioned myself in the driver’s seat. It took less than a second for me to realize that Ada and I were alone—in a small and enclosed space.

She couldn’t run away from me in here, so I did something that I probably shouldn’t have done.

I grabbed her hand off the seat next to her and placed it on the gearshift knob—with mine on top of it. She tried to jerk it back, but I kept it there.

“What are you doing?” she asked, sounding both annoyed and confused.

“I’m teaching you how to drive a stick shift.”

“I don’t want to learn how to drive a stick shift.”

“Yes, you do,” I said. Ada let out an annoyed huff, but she didn’t deny it. I knew it—I’d seen her face back there, and I knew it. This was something I could do for her. “All right, so right now, the gearshift is in neutral, but if you move it over”—I moved the stick using both of our hands—“anddown, it’s in reverse—did you feel how it kind of clicks into place?”

She nodded. She tried to look uninterested, but I could tell she was interested.

“I’m not going to be able to look at you while I’m driving, so answering in words would be good when I ask you a question.”

“Yes, sir,” Ada said with an exaggerated eye roll. Well, that shot straight to my dick. Maybe I hadn’t thought this through, but it was too late to turn back now.

“Okay, so a manual has three pedals instead of two, and to make the truck move, you’ve gotta ships-in-the-night the gas and the clutch.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means they have to pass each other, so you let off the clutch while pressing on the gas, and where they meet in the middle is the sweet spot.”

“The spot that makes the truck move?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pushing the truck into motion and getting us out of the garage, basking in the sensation of my skin on hers again. I moved the gearshift back to neutral just before the truck stopped. “And when the truck stops, make sure it’s not in gear or you’ll kill it.”

“Kill it?” she asked. I put the truck in first gear and let my foot off the clutch, and the engine sputtered and died.

“Kill it,” I said. I took my hand off hers and immediately missed the way her skin felt, but I had to restart the truck. Then I put my hand back on hers. “We’re in first gear right now, and that’s where we need to be every time we start going forward. Once the truck gets moving,” I said as thetruck started down the drive, “we go to second.” I pushed in the clutch and shifted. “And once you hit about fifteen miles an hour”—clutch, shift—“you go to third, and so on.”