“Is this a ’65 or a ’66?” she asked after he got in himself and closed his door. She smoothed her hand over the white leather seats and the polished wooden dashboard. The interior smelled faintly of wax and lemon oil, which she seemed to appreciate as she took a big whiff. “Beautiful teak steering wheel. Nice seats.” She fingered the shiny silver gear shift. “Original gear shift.”

She was enraptured by his car. Worse, she seemed to know all about it—also shocking. But also, he had to admit, hot.

“It’s a ’65,” he said, putting the key in the ignition. Actually, it wasn’t, but he couldn’t resist testing her. One glance told him she was eyeballing every last detail. “You’re staring at my stick shift.”

“Do you have a problem with that?” she asked fake-sweetly.

He gave an epic grin. “No, because I happen to have a very fine stick.” What was it about her that made him want to spar with her right back?

“Some of these old cars don’t have the original chrome gear shafts. This one is really beautiful. Shiny.” Her gaze caressed the control panel. “Are you sure this is a ’65?”

“What makes you think it isn’t?” he asked nonchalantly. She couldn’t possibly know the technicalities of this answer. Could she?

“Well,” she said, “it has vertical front fender vents that look like gills.”

“Which is what all ’65 ’vettes have.”

“And ’66s,” she added. He looked over in disbelief. “But the fact that the word Corvette on the hood emblem is centered over Sting Ray definitively makes it a ’66.”

He shook his head, incredulous. “How’d you know that?” His friends didn’t even know that. In fact, he wouldn’t have, either, unless he’d gone to a vintage-car show last fall. Geez.

She shrugged and went silent, staring at the dashboard.

Curiosity got the best of him. “What are you—like, a vintage car lover or something?”

She gave him a wary look. “My dad used to love old cars. We used to pore over car magazines together. And every fall, we went to the classic-car show at the fairgrounds. He always wanted to own one, but of course they were too expensive. So instead he promised he’d teach me how to drive a stick.”

“You never learned how to drive a stick?”

“Not the kind on a car.”

He let out a snort. She was funny; he’d give her that. With a biting humor that she pulled out…when she wanted to keep people away.

It didn’t seem like Tessa Montgomery allowed people to get too close.

Which was fine with him, because this was a business arrangement. He reminded himself of that as he started the car, which practically purred.

He couldn’t resist digging a little deeper. “So why didn’t he teach you?”