Page 65 of Keeping Kasey
Kasey:You should. I’d start by telling you to get rid of your Bugatti Chiron. It’s tacky.
Logan:I won’t be taking car advice from someone who can’t drive.
Kasey:It’s more of a “won’t” than a “can’t.”
Logan:How is it that the most independent human alive can’t even drive herself to the grocery store?
Kasey:She has groceries delivered. Besides, I prefer city life. No need to drive. How do you justify having ten cars? You realize you can only drive one at a time, right?
Logan:Sixteen, actually, but you’re not going to use my perfectly normal hobby to avoid answering the question. Why don’t you drive?
Kasey:If you’re looking for some deep philosophical reason, there isn’t one. I don’t drive because I don’t want to. I rarely leave my home, and when I do, I walk or call a car.
Logan:Too good for the bus?
Kasey:Too crowded. I aim for minimal human contact. Now, it’s your turn. Why so many cars?
Logan:I like nice things.
Kasey:The mansion, suits, and private jet weren’t enough?
Logan:The mansion is a family estate, the suits are a work necessity, and the private jet is used exclusively for business travel.
Kasey:Your point?
Logan:The cars are mine. A luxury hobby that I choose to indulge in simply because I can.
An announcement comes over the speakers, telling us to fasten our seatbelts for landing, and I close my laptop. Ford keeps his out where he sits on the opposite side of the plane—quite literally as far away as he could possibly be from me.
Matteo lounges in the chair next to mine, with the footrest fully extended and eyes closed, though I know he isn’t sleeping because every few minutes he opens them to watch the flight attendant.
Matteo’s phone rings, and after a glance at the caller ID, he groans and answers.
“Matteo,” he greets.
I can’t hear what the caller says, but I do hear a low, gruff voice. With no other context to go on, I study Matteo’s face, which is mostly covered by his hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“James sent our itinerary over yesterday. We haven’t experienced any delays,” Matteo says in a detached tone.
He listens for several seconds, then his hand slides down his face before balling into a fist. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”
Then he hangs up, muttering a slew of curses under his breath.
“Boyfriend troubles?”
He turns his glare to me in a comically slow movement that I meet with a smile.
“I can’t imagine there’s a single person who appreciates your commentary.”
“I think it’s part of my charm.”
“I can assure you it’s not,” he deadpans.
“But you admit I’m charming?”
“As a bullet to the brain.”
I laugh and nod to his phone. “What was that about?”
