Page 42 of Forked (Frenched 2)
I stumbled slightly. “You still have that same truck?”
“Not good enough for you?” He was testing me. “You always hated it, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t hate it—I just…” I sighed heavily. “It’s fine. The truck will be fine.”
“Good.”
I followed him up a row of cars and looked around for the big honking heap he called a truck, but I didn’t see it. I was about to ask where it was when
Nick went over to a car that was covered with a giant beige cloth.
“What is this?” There was no way his old pickup truck was under that cover.
Nick put down his bag, setting the cooler alongside it. Then he began pulling the cover off, revealing a shiny red vintage car with a soft top.
I gasped. “That’s your car?”
Nick laughed. “It’s not the one I drive every day, but I thought it would be fun to take it to Noni’s. You like it?”
“Yes!” I ran one hand along its curvy side, admiring the whitewall tires. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
Nick opened the trunk. “A 1954 Mercury Monterey.”
“It’s a convertible too?” I swept my fingers along the cloth top.
“Yep.” He put the beige cover in the trunk and reached for my suitcase. “Is it nice enough for you?”
I handed it over and smacked his shoulder. “You told me you still had your truck!”
He grinned, adding his bag to the trunk before closing it
. “And you believed me.”
“Well, my God, you adored that stupid thing.
Did you actually get rid of it?”
“Sadly, yes.” Nick came around and opened the passenger door for me before opening the driver’s side and setting the cooler on the floor in the back seat. I slid in across the fabric-and-leather front seat, marveling at how roomy it was, how big the steering wheel, how shiny the dash.
I felt like a kid riding the ferris wheel for the first time—my insides were jumping with excitement. Nick got in and started the engine, then unhooked the lever connecting the top to the windshield on his side. “I’ve got this one,” I told him, unlatching the lever on my side.
Nick put the top down, which folded behind the back seat much like it did on my VW, and got out to fasten the cover over it. A few minutes later, we were on our way.
It was hard to keep a smile off my face as we pulled out into the July morning sunshine. I tipped my head back and listened to the staticky sound of AM radio and the loud thrum of the engine as we drove toward Indian Village, delighted with all the stares we got from people on the street or in other cars. Some waved at us, some just smiled, but it was easy to see that the sight of a beautifully restored classic car cruising down Jefferson made people happy.
I was happy too.
About fifteen minutes later we turned onto Iroquois, and nerves mingled with my exhilaration. I twisted my hands together, glancing at Nick. Would he think I was nuts? What if he reacted just like I thought my parents would? What if he told me there was no way in hell a girl like me should buy such a big old thing that needed so much work? Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him here.
Immediately I was annoyed with myself—why did I care so much what he thought?
“Is it that one?” he asked as we neared it. “The one with the sign?”
“Yes.” My agent’s black Audi was parked on the street. “You can pull in the driveway. No one lives here.”
Nick pulled into the drive, and we got out. Linda, my agent, glided over to us. She was tall and thin with dark skin and wide-set brown eyes, and always dressed in impeccable suits with matching heels. “Coco.” She offered her hand. “Good morning.”
“Morning, Linda. This is my friend, Nick Lupo.” She took his hand too, tilting her head thoughtfully.
