“What,” I breathed. “Is that?”

“Oh,” said Adrian casually. “That’s my new car.”

I took a few steps forward and then stopped, afraid to approach it in the same way someone hesitated before royalty. “It’s a 1967 Ford Mustang convertible,” I said, knowing my eyes were probably bugging out of my face. I began walking around it. “The year they did a major overhaul and increased the size to keep up with other high-powered competition. See? It’s the first model with the concave tail lights but the last to have the Ford block lettering up front until 1974.”

“What in the world is that color?” asked Eddie, not sounding impressed at all.

“Springtime Yellow,” Adrian and I said in unison.

“I would’ve guessed Lemon Chiffon,” said Eddie. “Maybe you can get it repainted.”

“No!” I exclaimed. I tossed my purse over onto the grass and carefully touched the car’s side. Brayden’s beautiful new Mustang suddenly seemed so ordinary. “It’s been touched up, obviously, but this is a classic color. Which engine code is this? C, right?”

“Um… not sure,” said Adrian. “I know it’s got a V-8 engine.”

“Of course it does,” I said. It was hard not to roll my eyes. “A 289. I want to know what the horsepower is.”

“It’s probably in the paperwork,” Adrian said lamely.

It was at that moment that I really processed Adrian’s earlier words. I looked up at him, knowing my face must be filled with disbelief. “This is really your car?”

“Yup,” he said. “I told you. The old man spotted me the money for one.”

“And you got this one?” I peered in through the window. “Nice. Black interior, manual transmission.”

“Yeah,” said Adrian, a note of unease in his voice. “That’s the problem.”

I glanced back. “What is? The black is great. And the leather’s condition is fantastic. So is the rest of the car.”

“No, not the interior. The transmission. I can’t drive a stick.”

I froze. “You can’t drive a stick?”

“Neither can I,” said Jill.

“You don’t have a license,” I reminded her. Although, my mother had taught me to drive before I had a license—both automatic and manual transmission. I knew I shouldn’t be surprised the stick was a lost art, as savage as such a lack seemed to me. That paled, of course, in comparison to the other obvious problem. “Why on earth would you buy a car like this if you can’t drive a stick? There are dozens of cars—new cars—that have automatic transmission. It’d be a million times easier.”

Adrian shrugged. “I like the color. It matches my living room.”

Eddie snorted.

“But you can’t drive it,” I pointed out.

“I figure it can’t be that hard.” Adrian sounded remarkably unconcerned about what I found blasphemous. “I’ll just practice taking it around the block a few times and figure it out.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What? Are you out of your mind? You’ll ruin it if you don’t know what you’re doing!”