Page 22 of Minted

“It’s a Buick LeSabre,” I say, lifting my nose just a little.

“A Buick?” he asks. “Are you serious? I thought you had to be fifty or older to even buy one.”

“Well, the person who bought it was.” My eyes drop to my hands.

“Oh.” His hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly. “I’m sorry.”

“I should sell it, I know,” I say. “But Mom drove it for years, and honestly, it kind of smells like her a little.”

“It does?”

“Well, I keep buying the same air freshener she used, so yes.”

He laughs. “Good call. That’s not something you could do with any other car.” But the judgment’s gone from his tone.

“I hate to play the dead mom card, but sometimes it comes in handy.”

“Still, do you really think a Buick LeSabre is the right impression for me to make?”

“I think it won’t scream that you’re rich, and if you hit it off, you won’t have to explain to the girl that you bought a car you had no interest in driving so you could deceive her.”

“Interesting. I never thought of it like that.”

“Your clothes are nondescript, so I doubt she’ll even think about them if you hit it off. But a car? At least you’ll be able to say you just borrowed one.”

“Alright, alright,” he says. “I get it. I’ll borrow yours.”

“Which of yours are you going to loan me?” The perks of this job just keep improving.

“Which one do you want?”

“This one’s pretty nice.” I run my hand down the armrest, and I sigh. “It doesn’t smell right, though. Do you think they’d have the mothballs and old mice nests air freshener at the corner store over there?”

“No air fresheners allowed,” Bentley says.

I’m laughing as I get out of his car. “Don’t worry. I’m sure once I’ve spilled a few sauces from Chick-fil-A, it’ll smell just fine.”

He’s cringing like he’s not sure I’m kidding. Which is exactly what I want. “When’s the first holiday party?”

“Oh, shoot,” I say. “I forgot to text you.” I cringe a little. “It’s tomorrow. Can you still come?”

“For sure,” he says. “Text me the time. We can change cars afterward.”

“Right,” I say. “Good plan.”

“What should I wear?” he asks.

“Not your undercover stuff. I want you to knock everyone’s socks off.”

“Knock socks off,” he says. “Check.”

“I’ll be wearing a bright green dress.”

I’m about to go in when he freezes. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

He flips the phone toward me. “Someone sent me a reply.” He swallows. “Why does it say a reply?”

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