Page 80 of The Thing About My Prince
“It’ll be okay. Just don’t slam the brakes on if there’s someone close up behind you or you might find yourself with an actual body to bury.”
“You are ridiculous,” she says with a smirk.
“And you are the hottest, most amazing person I’ve ever met. Now shut the goddamn lid.”
The slam makes me jump.
“Okay?” she shouts.
“Fine.” Not sure I am, to be honest. This is a lot more claustrophobia-inducing than I’d anticipated. But it’s only until we reach the clearing, so it’ll be fine.
Lexi’s feet crunch on the gravel around the car, stop, then circle back.
“Went to the wrong side,” she calls out.
I chuckle to myself as the car rocks when she gets in and shuts the door.
“Can you hear me?” she shouts from the driver’s seat.
“Yup. How about you?”
“You’re muffled, but yes.” She turns on the engine, and the car chugs to life. “Shit.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Stick shift.”
Oh, fuck, yeah. I’d totally forgotten most American cars are automatic. “Can you drive one?”
“I could last time I tried.”
“Great.”
“Which was about fourteen years ago. And only once.”
“I’m sure it’ll come back.” I try to sound positive.
“Here goes.”
I wince as she crunches the gears.
The car lurches forward, then judders before there’s another crunch and we make a couple of hops that jolt me so hard my head bangs against the wheel hub. “Fuck.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.” I rub the side of my head. “Just focus on driving. And maybe try lifting the clutch a little slower.”
“Okay, okay. No need to be a backseat driver. Or trunk driver.”
The car eventually moves forward in the more usual, smoother manner.
“See,” she shouts. “I’m getting the hang of it.”
We make the turn onto the long driveway, and the engine roars before she slams it into third gear.
“Ignore the photographers. Don’t even look at them,” I call out after we’ve chugged our way to the gates and she stops to wait for them to open.
When the car lurches forward and the gears crunch again, one of the photographers laughs.
