Chase’s lips press against my neck and my body reacts. I reach behind me and pull the shades closed as he starts to undo my pants.
“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he whispers. “You know that?”
“Lucky that $200,000 car broke down,” I say as he slides a hand up my shirt and cups my breast. “And lucky you were working that day and it wasn’t just Tucker.”
“He wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you anyway,” he growls, tugging my pants down over my hips. “You’re a brand new, luxury car, baby. And he only knows how to drive used cars.”
I giggle and reach down between his legs, feeling the bulge that seems to always be there. Some people might call our attraction “new love” and think that it will fade over time, but I just don’t see that happening. Chase can’t get enough of me. I read online that the key to any happy marriage was sexual intimacy. And if that’s true, we’re going to be living in marital bliss.
“All right, baby-maker,” I purr, undoing his belt. “How about one of those excellent tune-ups you give?”
“I seem to remember working on you this morning,” he muses back, caressing my lips with his. “But I’d be more than happy to give you another look. In fact, you might need another inspection tonight.”
Epilogue
Nicky
Four years later…
“Can you believe it? Over 210,000 follows!?”
“I can believe it,” my gorgeous husband purrs in my ear. “You’re that good.”
I stare in awe at my follower count on my Instagram page – no, not that kind of Instagram page, it’s a page I started after Chase saw my sketchbook one day.
“Those are great!” I remember him telling me as I sat on the front steps under the sun. “You should put them online!”
I’d been reluctant at first, but after a few months of him persisting, I finally gave in and made the account. I didn’t use my real name to start, but once I saw the response to my work, I revealed my identity.
It just feels so good to know that there are people out there who like what I do. I’ve had a few pieces up at the coffee shop in town, and have had a ton of requests for prints and originals from people online. Chase keeps joking that he’s going to be able to close the shop one day once I start “making millions” from my art.
I sigh one of those super-content-happy sighs and swivel in my chair to face my beautiful husband. He’s looking pleased with himself too, and for once, I see his hands aren’t dirty. I glance up at him and give him an inquisitive look.
“Chase,” I ask slowly. “Did you…did you finish it?”
“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Why don’t you come and look?”
“You finished it!” I exclaim, leaping out of my chair and throwing myself into his arms. Sure, I’m four months pregnant, but I’m not big enough yet that he can’t still lug me around with those pythons.
He carries me down the hall and out the front door into the summer sun and sets me down beside him.
“Ta-da,” he announces, presenting his finished project to me.
He’s had it sitting at the shop for months now, a 1977 Porsche 911. It’s absolutely gleaming, fully restored, cherry-red and looking beautiful. He’s been working on it for almost six months after finding it in Mr. Johnson’s backyard after he passed away. Nobody else in town thought it was worth bothering with – too far gone, they said, but Chase, never one to back down from a challenge, said he’d take it.
“It’s amazing, Chase,” I tell him, walking over to it to get a better look. I can see all his hard work, from the dents in the hood that he managed to smooth out, to the leather work on the seats that he had to hire out to a guy in Connecticut, to the polished metal, the completely cleaned and restored dash and the brand-new tires. He may have two kids already, and a third one on the way, but this car is also his baby.
“Take you for a ride?” he asks. I’m absolutely beaming as I nod my head. Lexy’s watching Tommy and Ben until 4:00, so we have some time before slipping back into parent mode again.
“God, I love you,” I tell him, my heart ready to burst.
“I love you more,” he smiles.
He takes my hand like a gentleman, leads me to the passenger side and holds the door for me.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” I tease as I slide in. He closes the door behind me. I can smell the fresh leather seats as he gets in next to me and starts it up.
“It may not be a Bentley,” he smirks, “but it’s still a dream car.”