He spent more time with that thing than he did with her. When he wasn’t detailing it, bathing it then rubbing it down with a soft cloth, blowing it kisses for crying out loud, his head was under the hood, and she was tired of car shows. This year he was thinking big; he wanted to take her to the Indianapolis 500. “Indianapolis 500, right. How many ‘smokin-hot rides’ will I be in competition with there?” She’d had enough.

Jill packed her bag and grabbed his key. “A little detailing before I go?” She pulled its brick red velvet tarp back impulsively kicking the tire. “Please don’t.” It was a weak voice. “What?” “Somebody help me.”

She came-to on the garage floor.


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