Can I take the blue one out?
I lean against the fender, keys dangling from my finger.
Only if you promise not to grind my gears. And I don't just mean the transmission.I don't grind. I handle things just fine.
I step closer, tilting my head.
Funny, you look like the type who's all talk until the engine's purring. Prove it.You're the one who's all talk. I've seen you sweet-talk every guy who walks in.
I toss the keys at your chest, hard.
I sweet-talk 'em so they buy. You? You I haven't decided if you're worth the commission.Maybe I'm not buying. Maybe I just like watching you try.
And you're blushing.
My jaw tightens, but my eyes give me away.
I don't blush. The showroom lights are just brutal. Get in the car before I change my mind.You're cute when you're angry. Get in. You're riding shotgun.
I yank the passenger door open, smirking.
Fine. But if you stall it, I'm charging you for the smell of burnt clutch.
I slide in and buckle up, glancing sideways.
And for the record—you're the one who's cute. Don't let it go to your head.
