Page 7

A Car with No Name

Abi

“What kind of car is this?” I asked.

I didn’t really care, but I couldn’t let the silence go on any longer.

It wasn’t my way.

Because if I sat there in silence, I was just going to continue to rage.

His fatherly don’t get cute really pissed me off, the way he thought he could just tell me to shut up and do what he said, but I also didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to stay in his fancy condo until I could go back to my own place.

So it was better to change the subject.

“What?” Declan glanced at me out of the corner of his eye as he navigated us in and out of traffic. His car was black and sleek on the outside, woodgrain and leather on the inside. It felt expensive and sounded fast, but I’d yet to see any identifiable logo. “It’s a CX1290.”

“But what make is it?” I prodded, because it definitely wasn’t a Kia.

He gave something like a shrug and said, “Oh, it’s custom.”

Custom?

What could that possibly mean? He’d had it custom-made? Did a car designer build him a special vehicle? Had he customized a regular car and added the CX1290 to be cool?

And wouldn’t it still be a certain make of a car, even if it’d been customized for Richie Rich?

It’s custom.

Insert one thousand rolling-eye emojis.

I knew it was a “me” thing, but I harbored a great deal of prejudice when it came to wealth.

I mean, I was fine with people working hard and rewarding themselves for their success; living well was A-okay in my book.

Nice house, nice car, no money stress; hopefully I’d know what that felt like someday.

My student loans pointed toward an eternal paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle, but a girl can dream, right?

But I couldn’t wrap my head around things like twenty-room mansions and six-figure sports cars. I saw it as a massive character flaw, the ability to be fine with just collecting wealth while most of the world struggled.

Not that I had any sort of an altruistic plan as to what millionaires should be spending their money on, but I just couldn’t fathom being okay with things like Birkin bags and Bugattis.

And probably CX1290s.

I didn’t know Declan at all so I couldn’t technically judge him, but oh, it’s custom was setting off all the alarm bells about his character.

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked, because my curiosity needed to know more than my ego demanded I protect my ignorance. “Is it a certain brand, like Tesla, but customized for you? Is that what you mean?”

“It’s custom-built by my car guy, so it’s not one specific brand,” he said. “But we should probably discuss the story of us instead of my vehicle, don’t you think? We’re going to be at the restaurant in five minutes.”

I wanted so badly to open a discussion about Taylor Swift’s song “The Story of Us,” just to irritate him, but he was actually right.

“Okay, so we’ve been dating for six-ish months,” I said, thinking it was very bold of him to believe he could keep the same girlfriend for six whole months since he seemed pretty impossible to be with.

The dossier hadn’t said anything specific about Abi and Declan as a couple, so I filled in the micro-details.

“You said I love you first and really wanted to buy me a cat but I’m allergic so you couldn’t.

I make you watch rom-coms even though you hate them, though I’m starting to suspect you love them and watch them without me now.

I took you to get your wisdom teeth taken out and made a hilarious video of you bawling over broken Pop-Tarts while you were under the influence.

I bring you baked goods every time we’re together—I’m an obscenely good baker, for the record—and you secretly wonder if they’re laced with something because that’s the only explanation as to how you could fall for someone like me. ”

I knew without a doubt that it’d take some hardcore impairment for this billionaire to appreciate my… me- ness. Not that I didn’t like myself; it was more that my brand seemed a thousand miles away from his.

He seemed to be all refined elegance, where I was… not .

“First of all, I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was eighteen. Second, that is your story of us?” he asked, and he almost looked like he wanted to smile.

Almost.

Wow, had I even seen him smile yet? He’d grinned when he was intimidating me at Benny’s, but that’d been more of a wolflike I’m-going-to-tear-out-your-throat expression as opposed to a genuine, heartfelt smile.

“Well, I mean—”

“Hold that thought,” he interrupted as his phone started ringing.

“Holding,” I muttered as he answered the call with a “Hi, Warren.”

I sat there in the passenger seat, questioning yet again what the hell I was doing as the man behind the wheel took a business call when we were supposed to be prepping for the cocktail party.

I really wanted him to tell me what the party was going to look like, who the primary characters were that I’d be meeting, and which people mattered to him the most.

The only upside of this going terribly wrong was that I could use the material.

I let my eyes wander over every inch of the car’s interior, committing to memory the huge navigational screen, shiny black-metal accents, and the way the buttery-soft leather seat felt under my legs.

When his call didn’t appear to be wrapping up anytime soon, I pulled out my phone and started putting details in the Notes app, just to ensure I didn’t forget.

When he finally stopped the car in front of the downtown restaurant, I was instantly nervous. Yes, this didn’t really matter in the overall scheme of things, but my stomach felt queasy as I looked at the impressive building.

And it got worse when Declan stepped out of the car and handed the valet his keys with the phone still attached to his ear.

Are we seriously not going to have time to share notes before the test?

I reached for my door handle, but Declan was already on my side of the car, pulling the door open. I looked up into green eyes that were a little intimidating as they focused on me, and all I could do was take his extended hand and get out of the vehicle.

But as soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, five warm fingers slid between mine and it did something to my stomach.

I swallowed as butterflies went wild, which was ridiculous when (a) he didn’t even like me, (b) the hand-holding was all part of the fake dating scheme, and (c) he was still on a damn work call.

It was just so strange to be holding his hand, though.

“Declan,” I whispered as he led me into the building. Palate was dark, with a huge bar just to the right of the entrance, and it was daunting in its quiet elegance. “Don’t you think we should quickly go over—”

“Abi!”

My head whipped around, and the couple from this morning—Declan’s parents, apparently—were walking toward us with big smiles on their faces.

Christ, had they been sitting by the door, waiting for us? It was too soon; I wasn’t ready!

His mother was wearing a burgundy dress that looked like it was created for her slim figure, and his dad was wearing a gray suit with a burgundy pocket square that matched her dress perfectly.

They were ridiculously stylish in a way that only moneyed people could pull off, and I felt like a total commoner in their wake.

“Hi,” I said, glad to hear Declan say “We just got here” into his phone. Hopefully that meant he was about to hang up. “Nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” his mother said, grinning and pulling me in for a hug.

I was not the biggest hugger, but I did my best as I dropped Declan’s hand, giving her back an awkward pat, instantly relieved when she released me.

His dad tilted his head toward Declan’s phone and asked me, “Is that Warren?”

“Yes,” I replied, hoping he didn’t require any further intel because I didn’t know what or who a “Warren” actually was.

“Well, this could be a minute, then,” he said with a boyish twinkle in green eyes that matched Declan’s, “so you should come with us and get a glass of wine while he finishes up.”

“Well, I-I don’t know if Dex wants anything,” I stammered, trying to give Declan get off the phone eyes without his parents noticing. “So I can just wait for him.”

Declan looked at me, but I could tell he was concentrating on the call and barely noticed my situation.

“No, you cannot,” his mom said, linking her arm with mine. “We will take you to the bar, and Dexxie can join us when he finishes.”

I wanted to scream Amber Alert! as his parents led me away. Not only did I not want to go mingle with socialite strangers, but I knew nothing about what I was supposed to do or say to anyone , so this wasn’t going to be good.

“I’m actually glad he’s tied up,” his mom said with a smile, “because it gives me a chance to get to know you without him butting in. I want to hear your side of how you two ended up together, with all the sweet stuff that he’d never share.”

And as she gave me just the nicest grin, I couldn’t help but grin back.

Because this?

This might be fun.

His mother was giving me a golden opportunity to share some anecdotal gems about the jackass who couldn’t be bothered to get off the phone and take care of his fake girlfriend.

“Okay,” I said, my brain exploding with ideas. “But you have to tell me what he’s shared first.”

“Deal,” she replied, gesturing to the bartender for two of whatever had been in her empty wineglass. “That will take all of one minute. We only know that your name is Abi, you’re brilliant, and I think he might’ve said you went to UNO.”

“And we know you make incredible muffins,” his dad interjected with a smile.

“Thank you,” I said, still salty about losing my muffins.

That was supposed to be my meal prep, Charles!

“I’m just glad we got to them before Declan,” his mom said as she grabbed two glasses of wine from the bartender and held one out to me. “He tends to eat all the sweets before anyone else has a chance to touch them.”