We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,35

than the act of it. My thumb traces the design engraved on the fob’s surface: a pair of wings inset with the letter B. As I pocket it, a fissure of exhilaration quakes my rule-oriented foundations.

I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Not a pack of chewing gum, not a hotel bathrobe, not an apple from the produce aisle. Certainly not a car.

How many years in the slammer do you get for grand theft auto?

Today, I’m willing to risk it.

Backtracking my steps, I find my way to the side door off the atrium that leads to the garage. The fleet sits there, tucked beneath satin dust covers like thoroughbreds left to wither in their stalls. A shameful waste of horsepower.

I sort them by their distinct shapes — the low-slung Porsche, the stately Rolls Royce, the angular Aston Martin, the sharp-edged Tesla. And, at the far end, my destination: the boxy Bentley.

My father has more automobiles than any one man requires — especially a man that’s rarely even on this continent enough to get behind the wheel. I suppose that works in my favor, though. It would be much harder to steal one of his cars if he were actually home to notice.

I yank the dust-cover off the Bentley and pile it in a corner. Clicking the fob, I grin as the headlights flash in response and reach for the door handle.

“I wouldn’t take it if I were you,” a voice says casually.

I jump about a mile into the air. The fob clatters to my feet, then skitters beneath the chassis. Whirling around, I come face to face with Miguel. I didn’t even notice him crouched down by the front of the Porsche, a tire-pressure gauge in his hand.

“I—I’m not—I wasn’t—”

“Stealing your father’s Bentley? Sure you were.” Miguel chuckles. When he does, his caramel eyes crinkle up at the corners — just like his son’s. Looking at him is like staring into the future. He’s Archer in thirty years. Salt and pepper hair, a few wrinkles gathered around his temples. Still handsome in that roguish way that makes women on the street turn their heads.

“You’d make a pretty lousy criminal, JoJo,” Miguel tells me cheerfully.

“I’m sorry. I just…” I trail off. I have no reasonable explanation to offer him. I chew my lip as I wait for the axe to fall. Miguel never gets angry — not that I’ve seen, at least. But his quiet disappointment is infinitely worse than any raised voices or raging words.

“What was the plan? Sneak in here and steal a car to avoid riding with Archer?”

I blink, stunned. “How did you—”

“My wife talks. A lot. She indicated you and my son have been… at odds lately.”

Of course Flora told him. I’m surprised she hasn’t taken out a billboard in the center of town.

JOSEPHINE AND ARCHER HAD A FIGHT!

I sigh deeply. “I just thought… maybe… a little space might not be the worst thing. I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea, and I definitely didn’t think it through.”

“That’s true.” Miguel nods slowly. “I mean, for starters…” He jerks his head at the car beside me. “The Bentley’s basically out of gas. You’d make it about three blocks before you ran out.”

“Oh.” Color floods my cheeks. “I didn’t know that.”

“Figured as much. That’s why I stopped you.”

“That’s why you stopped me?”

“Well, sure. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. I can’t be playing your knight-with-shining-gas-can, rescuing you from the roadside.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a key, and tosses it my direction. Baffled beyond belief, I manage to catch it with my fingertips before it clatters to the cement floor.

“Uhh…”

“Take the Cabriolet,” Miguel says, pulling off the cover, revealing a hunter green convertible with a tan ragtop roof. “She’s got a full tank and fresh oil.”

I walk toward the Porsche. Even if you know nothing about cars, it’s spectacular — a vintage 1965 model, with a front trunk compartment and round, buggy headlights. It reminds me of something Audrey Hepburn or Elizabeth Taylor would drive around in, cruising down Hollywood Boulevard between movie sets.

Nothing else in this garage can hold a candle to it. Not the Rolls Royce with its regal glamour or the Bentley with its astronomical price point or even the brand new Tesla with it’s self-driving pizzazz.

“Miguel, I can’t take the Porsche.”

“Sure you can. It’s warm today — perfect for riding with the top down. Just do me a favor? Don’t crash it. This car costs more than most people