Page 23 of Kiss My Glass
I drink my beer, instead. And by one fifty-nine, we’re standing outside on the pavement, The Silver Saddle’s door shut firmly behind us.
“Bye, sweets.” Shelby kissed Chiara on the cheek. “Thanks for lunch.”
Chiara paid, which seemed the least she could do. Brendan managed to avoid looking at her for the whole transaction.
“Goodbye, Frankie,” Chiara says. “And remember, you and Danny do have more in common than you think.”
She walks off in the direction of Bartons, where she may as well live. Did Danny get tortured by Chiara, too? Maybe I’ll ask him; maybe I won’t.
We took my car because Nate has the pick-up. I’m just pulling the keys out of my bag, when said pick-up pulls in behind us, and the driver hops out.
“Nate!”
In this respect, Shelby’s a lot like a dog. Even if Nate’s only been gone five minutes, she acts like he’s been away for years.
“How was lunch?” he says, after they’ve kissed hello.
“Weird,” says Shelby. “How was yours?”
Nate pulls a face. “On brand.”
He looks at me. “Don’t suppose we can swap?”
“What? Cars?” I ask.
“Passengers. So, I can drive home with my beautiful wife.”
Danny’s leaning on the pick-up. He lifts his hands to make it clear this is not his idea.
My thoughts are – yes, damn you, Chiara – complicated and conflicted. I want to show my car off to Danny. I want to ask him quite a few questions. I would also sooner eat leafy greens than give Chiara an inch. What will it be, Frankie?
“Sure,” I say. “Danny. Hop in.”
ChapterFourteen
DANNY
This is … unexpected. I’d expected a flat out “No” to Nate’s request, but now it looks like I’m riding shotgun in Frankie’s Karmann Ghia convertible. Top down. Wind in our hair and all that jazz.
“Do you think I can door-hop in here like they used to do in those 70s TV shows?” I ask, assessing the distance from pavement to passenger seat.
“You meanThe Dukes of Hazzard?” says Frankie.
“They went in through the windows,” I reply. “And only because The General Lee’s door handle got broken in an early chase scene.”
Only a true vehicle nerd would know that. Frankie remains unimpressed.
“Try it if you want,” she says, with a shrug. “But if you land ass-first on the gearshift, don’t come crying to me.”
Fair point. I’ll use the door. I get in and have to push the seat back a mile because Shelby was in here last and my knees are up round my ears. Frankie’s still on the pavement, but whatever second thoughts she’s having about agreeing to this, she sets them aside and gets in.
I’m used to classic cars being on the compact side. I’m not prepared for how it feels being so close to Frankie that I can feel the warmth from her bare arms. She’s wearing another retro sundress, this one in tangy orange. She looks sweet, juicy and edible, and she smells amazing, an almost masculine musky scent that, if I didn’t know better, I would swear was Old Spice, and I need to stop thinking those thoughts right now or the second she glances my way, she’ll know. I could lift her tote bag off the floor and onto my lap, but that would be more obvious. I think about Dad, instead. Works instantly, like a swift tap with a cold metal spoon.
Fully present and re-focused, I note that Frankie is an excellent driver. Confident and alert. Changes the gears smoothly, which isn’t always easy in these old cars. I watch her hand manipulate the gearshift and hastily picture Dad again. And start looking at the passing scenery because I obviously can’t be trusted to keep my thoughts above my waist.
It’s not a long drive from Verity to Flora Valley Wines, but it’s a pretty one. My family tends to think of me as a city boy now, but I love being out in nature. Often when I run or hike the Topanga trails, I take a moment to stop and sit and take in what’s around me, the colors and textures, scents, and sounds. I’ve become adept at identifying different bird calls. It’s amazing what you can observe when you slow down and look outside of yourself.
“Do you miss living around here?” Frankie’s first words to me in two miles.
