Joy Ride

Henley’s pad was decorated in ruby red, fuchsia pink, and dove gray. Her fridge was slathered in magnets with stylish images of women in vintage dresses holding martinis and kittens with captions like “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you don’t have a hamster anymore.”


Her coffee table was covered in framed pictures of her friends, her sister, her brother, and the rest of her family. We visited them in California recently, and they grilled me, making sure that I was the right fit for her. I’m pleased to report that I passed. Her couch was a comfy cranberry-red one, and it’s been donated to Goodwill, along with some of her other furniture. She said good-bye to her bed, but she’s keeping the comforter and all the pillows. They’ve found a new home on my bed, which is now our bed.

My home is now ours.

As I stand here with her, the last bag packed up, she waves good-bye to her pad in SoHo. She blows it a kiss, then shuts the door, locks it, and leaves the key with the super.

“Good-bye, Girlie Home,” she says, as we head down the steps to the curb. Blue Betty awaits, and she’s even prettier than before. Leon repaired the hell out of her, and Henley fine-tuned the damaged engine. I hired her to give my prized possession a little extra oomph. I wanted the best for my sports car, and my girl is the best. Don’t get me wrong—I kick unholy ass with the exotics and the high-end vehicles. But Henley has a magic touch with hot rods.

No pun intended.

Marlowe Custom Cars has landed several big clients in the three months it’s been open, and I couldn’t be more proud of this woman. She’s beat me out on a few deals, and vice versa. The Lambo and Midnight Steel became huge hits, and sent even more business her way and mine. Sometimes we vie for clients, and it turns out the two of us thrive on the competition. It makes both of us better, tougher, more ferocious.

During the day and at night.

For now, I open the door and she slides into the passenger seat, then we head home, where we abuse our toothbrushes together.

As I pull into the lot where I keep my cars, a flurry of excitement rushes through me. I rein in a grin as my eyes land on a gift I got for her. She sees it, too, only she doesn’t yet know it’s hers.

She points and grabs at my arm as I turn the corner in the lot. “Look at that ’69 Mustang.”

“Damn,” I say with a low whistle. “That is one fine car.”

As we drive closer, her nose crinkles. “But it’s white.”

I shudder. “So boring.”

“I would never paint a Mustang white.”

“You’d paint it pink, wouldn’t you?”

“You know it.”

I pull into the spot next to it and cut the engine. We get out, but instead of heading toward our building, I open the door to the Mustang.

“It’s yours. You can paint it pink, tiger. You can paint it black. Hell, you can paint it lime gold if you want.”

Her jaw drops open. “Oh my God, are you serious?”

I nod, loving her excitement. “I’m completely serious. You can absolutely paint it lime gold.”

She punches me lightly. “I meant, did you really get it for me?”

I cup her cheeks. “You’re moving in with me. It only seemed fitting to give you a garage-warming gift.”

“You’re such a gearhead, and I love you.”

“I love you, too. Want to take it for a spin?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “No. Of course not. I would never want to take the ’69 Mustang that my big, brutish, bearish boyfriend got me out for a ride. Let’s go play Monopoly instead.” Then she jumps up and down. “I want to take it for a drive now!”

I head to the passenger door. When I get inside, I say in my best offhand tone, “The keys are in the glove box.”

She pops it open, then freezes. When her eyes widen, the brown in them is the sweetest shade I’ve ever seen. “Max,” she says in a reverent whisper as she points at the blue jewelry box. “Is that . . .?”

I grab the box and pop it open. A diamond as bright as the sun gleams.

“Oh my God.” She clasps one hand to her mouth and tears streak down her cheeks. My tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners girlfriend has the softest heart, the most emotional soul, and the sweetest smile.

“Will you marry me?” I ask, as I do my best to somehow drop to one knee in the front seat of a car. It’s not easy, and by no means is this a perfect proposal position, but I hardly think that matters when she shrieks her yes, and I slide the ring on her finger. It’s not a small ring by any stretch. It’s what’s known in certain circles as a big-ass diamond. It’s four carats. She won’t be able to wear it often since she works with her hands and gets them dirty, so when she puts it on, I want the whole damn world to know from miles away she’s taken.

But more than that, I want her to enjoy it, and Henley likes her sparkles and her bling.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, and then she kisses me. “Besides you.”

Once the happy tears stop, we go for a drive, and somewhere out in the country beyond Manhattan, we pull over, and we christen the passenger seat.



A few nights later, Henley plays hostess. The guests are my brother and his wife, Josie, since they’re married now, my sister, Mia, since she’s in town, Patrick, and Henley’s best friend, Olivia.

After Henley serves her now-famous homemade mac and cheese, she asks in a mock-curious voice, “By the way, did anyone happen to see the serving spoon?”

Then she shows off her ring.

“I’m blind, I’m blind,” Mia calls out, shielding her eyes.

When she pours more wine, she asks, “Did anyone happen to see the cork?”

She shows her ring yet again.

“It’s like looking at the sun,” Olivia declares.

When she sits down next to me, she admires it once more. “Seriously. Is this the most perfect ring ever?”

“I kind of like mine,” Josie says, glancing at her band and engagement ring.

“The Summers men do have most excellent taste,” Henley says.

Mia clears her throat. “Ahem. Where do you think they learned how to pick out rings?”

Patrick laughs and raises a glass. “To the happy couple, and the secret weapon of a sister who helped choose the most beautiful diamonds.”

We all raise our glasses and drink to that. Patrick locks eyes with my sister, and something seems to pass between them. Maybe a knowing grin. Perhaps a wink.

I’m not entirely sure. But when the meal ends, and Henley and I are in the kitchen cleaning up, I whisper in her ear, “Did you see that look Patrick gave my sister?”

Henley giggles and grabs my forearm. “Honey, I think Patrick is giving your sister a lot more than looks.”

I freeze. I’m not sure how to process this news. “Seriously?”

“Sometimes, you’re adorably clueless,” she says, then she shares her theory on what’s up with Patrick and Mia. When she’s done, she swats me with a towel. “But that’s a story for another time. We need to get back to our guests.”

We join them in the living room for a round of pool, and I lose interest in everything but beating them all quickly, so I can get my fiancée under the covers and under me.





Another Epilogue





A little later



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