The One In My Heart

“What if I gave you the key to my car? You can drive yourself home.”


My eyes widened. I glanced at the sleek vehicle, a Tesla Roadster. “You’re willing to let a stranger drive your car? Aren’t you breaking some sacred man commandment?”

“I’ll risk it.”

He lobbed the key my way. I somehow managed to catch it between my wrists, while still holding on to both phone and rock. “But I’ll get your car all wet!”

“It’s an old car. It’ll survive,” he answered from over his shoulder, already walking away.

And kept walking away, with no backward glances for me or the fate of his car. I stared at him, and then down at the car key. He wasn’t kidding—he’d really left me his car.

And I thought I was pretty deranged for stumbling about in the dark, even after it started to rain.

Not knowing what else to do, I got into the Roadster, wincing in apology as my soaked clothes squelched against the leather seat. Thank goodness I hadn’t actually dialed 911, or I’d have to shamefacedly explain that not only hadn’t the man assaulted me, but that I was now in possession of his vehicle.

I slowed as I approached Bennett, who was headed in the same direction as me. It wouldn’t feel quite right to drive past him in his car, but I still hesitated, the adrenaline from my earlier scare not completely dissipated yet. What if he was running a long con? What if he meant to gain my trust and then pounce on me?

Shaking my head at my cynicism—nobody ran this kind of long con on a random stranger—I stopped a bit past him and lowered the window two inches on the passenger side. “Hey, people keep telling me this neighborhood is really safe. But it’s late. Can I drop you off at home?”

He braced a hand on the top of the car and leaned down. “No. Grandma told me I’m too pretty to get into cars with strangers.”

My lips twitched. “Grandma was lying through her teeth. You’re just average.”

“What? But I had plans for becoming a Park Avenue trophy husband.”

I felt a smile spreading across my face, a lovely sensation. “Forget about sleeping your way to the top. You’ll have to get to Park Avenue by exploiting the masses like everyone else—or not at all. Now get in the car before I give it back to you.”

He shook his head, collapsed his umbrella, and got in. “When did it become so hard to be a Good Samaritan? You give up your ride to a woman in need and she calls you ugly.”

“That’ll teach you to give your ride to women in need. I could have fenced the car overnight.”

He pulled on the seat belt. “You’ll make me cry into my tiramisu.”

I slowly eased my foot down on the accelerator—the engine was much more powerful than I’d expected. “Don’t tell me you actually have tiramisu at home.”

I had eaten earlier, now that I thought about it, but an apple and two scrambled eggs were not enough for an entire day. A huge serving of something sweet and dense would send me into a food stupor, and a food stupor might be exactly what I needed for a full night’s sleep, which I hadn’t had since the beginning of Zelda’s episode.

“I never lie about food,” said Bennett.

Then what do you lie about? “Lucky you.”

“At least I can stuff my face on the night I find out I’m not pretty. You know, take it like a man.”

I smiled again—there was something rather irresistible about him.

He gave me directions, and we arrived at a center-hall colonial with a circular driveway in front. As the Roadster came to a stop, he picked up a messenger bag from the floor of the car and looked inside.

“So what do you do to pass time while you’re waiting to become a Park Avenue trophy husband?” I heard myself ask.

He mock-glared at me, his cheekbones remarkable in the exterior lights of the house that had come on when we pulled up. “You mean what do I do when I’m waiting to never become a Park Avenue trophy husband?”

“Don’t let some hater step on your dream. But yeah, that.”

He shook his head a little, smiling. “I’m a surgeon.”

I looked him up and down. I’d have pegged him as a lawyer, one of those young, assertive, high-powered breed. Or a restaurateur, the shrewd kind who rehabbed derelict spaces into hole-in-the-wall eateries that had lines going around the block. I could even, in a pinch, imagine him as a Silicon Alley executive with a million frequent-flier miles accumulated from trips to San Jose and Austin.

But I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a doctor, let alone the kind who worked with scalpels. “So, you’re tired of cutting people open?”

“Sick of it—blood and guts every day. But someday my princess will come, and she’ll carry me away from all this drudgery.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed aloud. He laughed too, though more quietly.