suit. He can smell a sale. Weirdly his accent sounds
mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell.
“A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands with
glee.
“New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line.
New!
“Did you ha一ve a model in mind, sir?” And he’s
smarmy, too.
“9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.”
“An excellent choice, sir.”
“What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head.
“Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to do
this.”
He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.”
Oh, for hea一ven’s sake. I resist the temptation to roll
my eyes. “You ha一ve a black car.”
He scowls at me.
“Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug.
Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviously
not his thing.
“What color do you want me to ha一ve?” I ask as if he’s
a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is
a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is
unwelcome—sad and sobering at once.
“Silver or white.”
“Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add,
chastened by my thoughts.
Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’d
like the convertible, ma’am?” he asks, clapping his hands
with enthusiasm.
My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by the
whole buying-a-car business, but my inner goddess tackles
her to the floor. Convertible? Drool!
Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” he
asks, raising an eyebrow.
I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my inner
goddess, which of course, he has. It’s most inconvenient at
times. I stare down at my hands.
Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats on
the convertible?”
Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for the
kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.
kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.
Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with
him, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy’s
well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.
Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked words
from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm
honey
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