“Don’t get in my car and act like I’m not a race car driver. That’s rude.”

He looks at me, shocked. “You aren’t a race car driver. You’re a … photographer, if I’m not mistaken, and one who clearly has no professional driver training under their belt.” 

I flip on my turn signal, grinning. “Want to know what I have under this belt?” 

He looks at me warily. 

“A need … for speed,” I say and tromp the gas again. 

The car lurches forward. The engine roars but I let off the gas before we exceed the speed limit. Only when I’m sure everything is under control do I look at Wade. 

He’s eyeing me carefully, a finger stroking his bottom lip. 

“This bothers you, doesn’t it?” I ask, flipping my attention back to the road. 

“What part?” 

I shrug. The fact that I don’t have specific ideas for my own home? That I’m a little sassier than I think he’s used to? That my driving skills are on point—even if he disagrees?

“I don’t know. All of it?” I offer.

His gaze lingers on me for a long moment. Its weight is heavy on the side of my face. Finally, he settles back in his seat and picks up his coffee. 

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “No idea at all.” 

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