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Maggie’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “What’s this? A bribe to make me wear your jersey more often?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. Just open it.”
She takes the box, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt through my body. As she lifts the lid, her eyebrows shoot up. “A fob? What’s this for?”
“Your new car,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “It’s parked outside.”
“My new what now?”
“Car. You know, those things with four wheels that get you from point A to point B without breaking down every other mile?”
Maggie's eyes narrow dangerously. “I know what a car is, smartass. What I don’t know is why you’re giving me one.”
“Your current ride is a rolling disaster. I thought you might appreciate something that actually starts when you turn the key.”
“So you just went out and bought me a car?” Her voice rises an octave. “Without asking me?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling less sure of myself.
“Sawyer O’Malley, you can’t just go around buying people cars!”
“I can if that person is my wife.”
Maggie’s nostrils flare.
Uh-oh. I know that look. It’s the ‘I’m about to verbally eviscerate you’ look.
“I don’t need your charity, O’Malley. My car works just fine.”
I snort. “If by ‘fine’ you mean ‘held together by duct tape and spit,’ then sure.”
She pushes past me and runs outside. There, in the driveway, is the shiny ice-blue Genesis I had delivered this afternoon. There’s even one of those big red bows on top.
“Where’s my Mazda, Sawyer? You didn’t junk it, did you?”
I hold up my hands in defense just in case that hot dress has built-in missiles. “Woah, woah. It’s in the garage.”
“I love my Mazda.”
“Nothing wrong with Mazdas,” I say. “But that 1980’s bucket of bolts is so old it might explode at any moment.”
She snuffs defensively. “It has character.”
“It’s leaking more oil than the Louisiana Pipeline spill.”
She waves her arms toward the Genesis. “This…thing…looks like a spaceship.”
“I’ll have you know, this beautiful, luxury vehicle is a top-rated safety pick. I don’t want you driving around in that death trap anymore.”
“Death trap? You literally ride a motorcycle!”
“Only in the summer. I drive my pickup in the winter months. Anyway, listen. We’ll be late for dinner of we don’t hurry. Let’s just try the car for tonight, and if you really hate it, we’ll look for something else.”
She crosses her arms, huffing as I carefully take the bow off the hood. “I’m only complying because I look hot in this dress and don’t want to rip it while climbing into your truck. Also, because there’s a wet substance on the seat of the Mazda.”
“Wet substance?”
“Could be coffee. Or rainwater mixed with rust.”
