not being able to drive a car because you don’t have a license. Did you let yours expire or something?”
“Never had one,” he mumbles, starting to pull his phone out again.
I grip his wrist. “Wait, you’ve never had a driver’s license?”
“I’ve never had an American driver’s license,” he clarifies. “I had an Irish one. In my teens.”
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me you haven’t had a valid driver’s license in over ten years?”
He shrugs, but I don’t let it go. “You seriously haven’t driven in over ten years?”
“That is correct.”
“But—” An awful thought occurs to me. “Oh. Colin. Is it because of your parents, because of how they—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Their accident was just a couple of years ago. My aversion to driving in the States started long before then.”
“How. Why? This makes no sense to me.”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s just … when I first got here, I was fully aware of just how daunting driving in New York was for people new to the city.”
“True. I grew up here, and it still terrifies me,” I admit.
“Precisely. Now imagine if you grew up driving on the other side of the road. Let’s just say Manhattan was not exactly the type of place I wanted to practice driving backward.”
I tap his ID against my palm for a moment then hand it back to him.
“That’s it?” he asks sarcastically. “No more snide jokes?”
“No more jokes,” I say pleasantly. “Do you have any plans this afternoon? And tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because, hubby. You and I are going Upstate for a little weekend getaway.”
“No.”
“Non-negotiable,” I say pleasantly.
“Why would I agree to that?”
“Because you owe me,” I say, not above playing the Rebecca card. “For failing to mention you were engaged. For three weeks.”
He hesitates, as I knew he would. His starchy moral code won’t let his conscience off Scot-free on that one.
“What’s Upstate?” he asks warily.
“Wide open roads.”
“For what purpose?”
“Oh, I think you already know,” I say, standing up as my number is finally called. But just in case he doesn’t already know, I turn back and give him a wide smile. “I’m going to be the best driving teacher you’ve ever had.”
Colin’s groan follows me all the way to the counter of the DMV.
Chapter 22
Saturday, September 12
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Colin says from the passenger side of our rental car.
“Don’t you want to learn how to drive?”
He hesitates. “I suppose. I just don’t understand why it has to be an extended nightmare.”
“By extended nightmare, you mean weekend getaway?”
“Same damn thing,” he grumbles.
I smile because I’m beginning to think he enjoys our banter every bit as much as I do.
“Okay, so since we left in such a hurry—”
“Whose fault was that?”
“I didn’t have time to put a road trip playlist together—”
“Thank God.”
“But, lucky for us, I do have all my workout playlists downloaded onto my phone, so we’ll have something to listen to. How do you feel about Madonna?”
“I prefer quiet.”
“Don’t be grumpy just because I don’t have any Irish jig music ready to go.”
“Irish jig music?” he says, giving me an incredulous look.
“Fine, what do you like to listen to?”
“Well, according to you, ‘Danny Boy’ on repeat.”
“We can download ‘Danny Boy.’ Here,” I say, fishing my phone out of the center console and handing it to him. “Have at it.”
“Madonna’s fine,” he grumbles. “What’s your passcode?”
“My birthday.”
To my surprise, Madonna’s “Holiday” begins playing mere seconds later.
“You know my birthday?” I ask, changing lanes to get around a semi.
“Apparently.”
“How?” I press.
“Oh, you know,” he says, dropping my phone back into the console and stretching out his legs in the passenger seat. “I have multiple calendar reminders set up. Every year, I agonize what to get you. I finally decide on something extremely sentimental but chicken out before I give it to you, so I have a decade’s worth of gifts carefully tucked away in my closet for when I get the courage to tell you how I really feel.”
“So hilarious,” I say in my best Irish accent. “Really though. How do you know?”
“We just spent nearly three hours in the DMV together,” he says. “Ample opportunity to see your date of birth.”
“Oh. Right.” I glance over. “Except I was in the DMV too and didn’t memorize your birthday.”
“I didn’t memorize it, I just … remembered it.”
“Fine, fine, but to even the playing field, when is yours?”
“March seventeenth.”
I’m delighted. “St. Paddy’s day! Really?”
“No.”
“Oh. Damn. So when? Damn it, man, don’t make me beg.”
He sighs. “May.