Richard scoffs. “What’s the point of having kids and then acting like they don’t exist?”

“That seems a little harsh. You don’t know that girl’s mother. The woman is probably doing the best she can.”

“It’s not the first time our neighbors have argued about the girl.”

“Still not your place to judge.”

Richard gives me a hard stare. “You seemed pretty quick on passing judgments yesterday.”

Ah well, Richard, gut-wrenching jealousy does turn me into an ugly person.

I can’t really say what I’m thinking, so I keep quiet, already regretting taking the boss up on his offer for a lift home.

***

Richard drives some sort of vintage sports car. I’m not sure what the make is, but I gather at first glance what the car isn’t: cheap, ordinary, American. The wheel is on the wrong side so I have to mount from the left. Richard hops in next to me, starts the engine, and drives away at an alarming speed.

After only two turns, I’m already convinced I’m going to die. Sitting on the left side of a car in a right-driving country is no fun. It gives me the impression we’ll slam into the opposing traffic at any second. I turn to Richard to protest but find I can’t.

The boss is looking straight ahead with a fierce, assured expression. One hand on the wheel, the other on the gear stick. His feet work the pedals, and our speed increases once again.

Then it hits me. That’s how James Bond gets all his women. It’s the sporty British car. Or the speed. The adrenaline? Oh, who am I kidding! It’s the pilot—and his stupidly sexy forearms!

“Enjoying the ride?” said pilot asks.

“More wondering if I’m going to make it home in one piece.” I sulk. “You always drive like this?”

“I can slow down if it bothers you.”

Please don’t. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Oooooooooooooooowhoo,” Chevron howls her remonstrations at the reduction in speed.

Richard laughs. “At least one of my girls knows how driving should be done.”

His girls? How am I one of his girls? Does he mean one of the girls in his car?

I spend the rest of the ride overanalyzing Richard’s choice of possessive pronoun and don’t even realize when he pulls onto my street.

“Sure you don’t want company?” Richard asks.

“No, thanks. As I said, my source is skittish.”

“Look at you, already protecting your sources. Next thing I know, you’ll go for a Pulitzer.”

I roll my eyes and exit the car, whistling for Chevron to follow me. When she jumps off, I secure her leash and lean my head back inside. “Thank you for the ride.” Richard is struggling to look me in the eye, and in the eye only, given how deep the neckline of my top is in this position. “See you in the morning.”

“Morning. Good night, I mean,” he says, choked.

With a smile, I close the door. Richard waits for me to get inside before he burns rubber.