9. STORM

“You can’t be serious.”

“You have a license, right?” he asks.

“Well, sure,” I say, eyes wide. “But this – I mean, I can’t.”

He shrugs. “Sure you can. Take your pick and let’s go.”

We’re in the huge garage that used to be a carriage house on the west side of the house. In front of us on the concrete floor is a mini-museum of nine classic American muscle cars, each one in pristine shape, like the Hamlin piano in the music room.

All I did was ask to go into town with him today. Now he’s telling me to choose which of these rolling bank vaults I want to drive on the trip!

“Did they come with the house?” I joke as I wander through the garage. I’m not a car buff, but I do recognize the vintage 1950s Cadillac. It’s the kind Elvis used to love so much.

Nick shakes his head. “I restored them.”

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“I have a lot of money and a lot of time on my hands,” he says. “When I’m not saving damsels in distress, that is.”

I grin and hold up three fingers. “Another one! Keep ‘em coming, funny man.”

I learned to drive in my mom’s beat-up Toyota Tercel, which was about half the size of most of the cars in here. I bet they have engines to match. Finally my eyes settle on something more my size, a little two-seater convertible in gorgeous candy-apply red.

“This one is perfect,” I say. “Can we take it?”

“You can drive a stick?”

I roll my eyes. “Why does every guy just assume a girl can’t drive a standard? You probably don’t think I can parallel park, either.”

His eyebrows go up.

“Yes, I can parallel park, smart guy!” I snap. “And I can drive this thing, too!”

He smiles and grabs a set of heavy-looking keys from a pegboard on the wall. He tosses them to me and makes his way to the passenger side of the convertible.

“All right, Danica Patrick,” he says, getting in. “Let’s go.”

I return the smirk as I open my door. “You know who Danica Patrick is,” I muse. “Maybe you’re not as old as you look.”

“I’m old enough to put you over my knee,” he says with mock gravity.

I push in the clutch and spark the engine. It has the deep, throaty growl of a tiger on a leash, despite the tiny size of the car, and suddenly I wonder if I made the right choice.

“Promises, promises,” I grin, putting it into gear and pulling into the circular driveway.

The engine purrs even louder, like an animal that senses freedom. Nick hits the button on the garage door opener clipped to the sun visor and the door slides shut behind us. He looks at me again, eyebrows up.

“You’re sure?” he asks one last time.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” I say, dropping his aviator sunglasses over my eyes.

The tires squeal as I pop the clutch and hit the gas, and for a full five seconds I’m absolutely positive I’m going to drive straight into the iron gate at the end of the driveway. The car roars to life and covers 100 yards in the blink of an eye before I cram in the clutch and slam on the brake pedal.

“Okay,” I pant, hoping I haven’t wet myself. “What the hell, Nick?”

He shocks me by biting his lip.

“I meant to tell you,” he says. His voice is trembling, like he’s about to bust out laughing. “This is a 1968 Corvette Stingray with a big-block V8. Basically it’s a jet engine with a Fiberglass shell sitting on it.”

So much for our leisurely drive.

“Very funny,” I say. “Are any of the other beasts in that garage easier to drive?”

He gives me a quizzical look. “Why do you ask? I though you did great. Now that you’re used to it, let’s go.”

A wave of his watch over the sensor pad on the stone wall and the gate opens, as if by magic. Part of me wonders if this is another attempt at a joke.

“Are you serious?” I say. “I almost killed us!”

“But you didn’t. So let’s go.”

I blink at him a few times before determining that yes, he’s being serious. As I spark the rumbling engine again, my heart beats faster. I can’t tell if it’s from terror or excitement – probably both.

“You’re sure?” I ask before putting it in gear.

“I’m sure.”

He pulls another pair of shades from the Corvette’s glove box and puts them on, then looks at me. His confidence in me is so foreign that he might as well be speaking another language. No one has ever thought I was capable of anything except playing the piano. I’ve never felt trust like he’s showing me right now.

The feeling is… indescribable.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Not a thing,” I say, gripping the leather-bound steering wheel and gunning the engine. “Let’s ride.”