Page 19 of Married in Michigan

“Yes. Which is highly irresponsible of me, considering this is one of two hundred ever made, and worth upwards of five million dollars, minimum.”

“Five…milliondollars? For acar?”

“For a Ferrari LaFerrari Aperta? Yes.”

“I guess I’m not sophisticated enough to understand how that’s possible.”

“It has a hand-built V-12 making 950 horsepower, weighs less than three thousand pounds, has a removable carbon-fiber hardtop, goes from standstill to sixty-two miles per hour in two-point-four seconds, and there will never be any more of them ever made.”

I roll my eyes, make my voice deep and cartoonishly gruff. “Oook oook. Me man. Me have big car, because me have small penis.”

His eyes cut to mine. “I saw the way you were looking at me yesterday. I think you know very well that’s not true.”

I shift in the seat, keep my eyes on the road outside the passenger window, and then cast a glance upward to the sky overhead, visible through the car’s removed hard-top—which, apparently, is one of the reasons this car is so expensive. Finally, I find my grit.

“I wasn’t looking at you any kind of way.” I huff. “And besides, you’re so self-absorbed it’s a wonder you even know I exist.”

“I may be self-absorbed,” he says, his voice a low growl that somehow matches the snarl of the massive engine, “but I noticed you.”

I snort. Keep my eyes trained out the window. “Right.”

A fingertip brushes a droplet of sweat off the back of my neck. “I noticed you enough to know you’re a hell of a lot sexier out of that dumbass maid outfit.”

I shiver at the delicate touch of his finger at my nape. Shift away, lifting a shoulder to dislodge his touch, and the memory of it—though the latter seems nearly impossible. “Stop.”

“Stop what, Makayla? Touching you? Or telling you you’re sexy?”

“Both.”

“What woman doesn’t want to be told she’s sexy?” His voice is a purr, and I refuse to make another comparison to the engine of this stupid vehicle.

“This one,” I lie.

He sniffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Pull the other one, Makayla.”

I don’t respond to that. “Where the hell are you taking me, anyway? And do you have to go a hundred and thirty miles an hour—HOLYSHITWATCHOUT!”

“I’m going ninety, not a hundred and thirty, for one thing,” Paxton says, breezy and casual, as if he hadn’t just swerved a half-second and millimeters away from smashing into the back end of a semi. “And for another, I’ve been through several exhaustive advanced driver’s training courses by the world’s foremost racing and evasive driving instructors. So just fucking relax, would you? I’ve got this.”

I scrabble at the handle and the seat belt—you’d think for a track car, this would have oh-shit bars for the passenger, but no. Too fancy for that.

“Aren’t you worried about getting a ticket?” I ask.

Another dismissive snort. “Cops around here know my cars, and they know who butters their bread.”

“Meaning they’re paid off?”

“Not paid off. But our family makes hefty donations every year to the department and I, in turn, miraculously never seem to get a ticket. Mostly because I may drive fast and seemingly recklessly but I’m an excellent driver, and I never endanger the other drivers.Theydon’t always appreciate that fact, but such things are often lost on plebeians.”

“Plebeians?” I echo. “Really?”

“They were a member of the lower socioeconomic class in Ancient Rome,” he explains, with dismissive loftiness dripping from his voice.

“Yes,” I say, drily. “I’m aware of what a plebeian is.”

He catches the tone in my voice this time, amazingly. But he doesn’t apologize or try to backtrack. Just shrugs, grins.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask again.