No one had told her buying a car was such hard work.
Then again, it probably wasn’t such hard work for normal people. But Sera had been struck with an attack of circumspection, balanced uncomfortably against the deep, dark desire to do something truly dumb. For an addict, accustomed to acting on impulse and regretting it later, it was like stomping on the gas and brake pedal simultaneously. Her adult, sober mind knew the smart thing to do. But her lizard brain was demanding its due—loudly.
The lot was full of perfectly nice cars. Her budget and business needs demanded a perfectly nice car. But she didn’t want a perfectly nice car. She wanted a badass car. Or maybe a truck. A big, honking pickup truck with scary, nubbly tires that came up to her waist and a corrugated steel bed just begging for a dusty old dog, hopefully wearing a bandanna around its neck and panting up a storm. It would bounce up and down dirt roads just like trucks did in commercials, spitting gravel and roaring. It would cart tons of whatever the hell it was asked to cart (never mind that Sera’s desserts were so light and airy the biggest cake in her repertoire barely weighed ten pounds). And it would say, loud and clear, “I am not a wimp. Put that shit right out of your mind. I am a confident, strong, undefeated woman. And I am every bit as badass as my truck.”
In the course of trying to talk herself out of this impractical longing, Sera had driven half the cars on the lot. Half of those were too expensive—far beyond the range of a baker just beginning her own business. The other half were divided into the practical—yawn—and the even more practical—coma. Subarus, Sera had discovered, were apparently the vehicle of choice among the green-chile-eating set. “Hippie liberal Dukakis–voting cars,” she could hear Blake’s voice in her head, clear as a bell and disdainful as always. He had driven a succession of flashy BMWs throughout the time Sera had dated him, looking down that long, aristocratic nose of his on “rice burners,” as he dubbed the whole range of modest, unassuming Japanese automobiles.
Almost, but not quite enough reason to buy one.
While Serafina had no problem with hippies, liberals, or those optimistic enough to have supported Dukakis, she simply wasn’t finding anything that spoke to her. Her aunt and Hortencia had had the good sense to step back after the first hour or so, when their well-meaning suggestions (“Oh, you don’t want the dark blue one, dear, you’ll roast!”) and helpful hints (“Baby-Bliss, you can’t buy that one, it barely has a backseat. How will you get your rocks off in a car like that?”) hadn’t brought Serafina closer to a decision. They’d retreated into the cool of the dealership’s interior. Sera could see them through the glass, pretending to be fascinated by a display of Chevy Tahoes that positively dwarfed the two women.
Asher had hung in there with her, however, even through several abortive test drives. Sera glanced at him, then quickly away, her cheeks flushed from more than sun. She’d seen how he clenched his knuckles white on the armrest a few times as she had taken a curve too quickly in an unfamiliar vehicle. But he’d maintained his cool, not commenting on her questionable driving skills. He hadn’t tried to influence her decision either, though she rather wished he would. Otherwise they might both grow old here. Even the leathery, sunglass-clad salesman had wandered off after a while, sensing he wasn’t going to hook this fish anytime soon.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “I can’t do this.” She turned back to Asher, looking up at him with a grimace of apology. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, Ash. I guess I’m just not ready to buy a car after all.” Stupid tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes, and Sera pretended it was just the sun, shading her face with one hand to hide them from the tall Israeli. “We should collect the ladies and go, I guess.”
Asher stopped her with a hand on her shoulder as she began to trudge toward the dealership. “Bliss,” he said. Then he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze in a way that would have been patronizing coming from any other man, but was impossibly hot when he did it. “What is it you really want?”
Aside from you?
“I don’t know.” Sera shook her head to dissipate the tears before they could fall. She plunked her hands on her hips and took in a deep breath, not wanting her landlord to see her so vulnerable. Experience had taught her it was a poor idea to let the male of the species catch her anything less than fully composed. Then she blew out the breath, deciding to let him in, just a little bit. “You know what, Asher? Actually, that’s not true at all. I know exactly what I want, I just don’t think I should want it.”
Asher merely looked at her with one brow quirked, not helping, not judging. His hand had fallen away from her face, but she could still feel its heat against her skin. Would probably be feeling it when she tucked herself into her lonely bed tonight.
Sera sighed. She’d better fess up. “It’s stupid. But I want… that one.” She pointed.
The car of her dreams sat on the edge of the lot, exiled with the used—excuse her, “pre-owned”—cars. It was not cute. It was not fuel-efficient. And Sera was fairly sure it wasn’t even an automatic. The powder blue pickup was at least a decade old, rusting around the edges, and absolutely perfect.
“The Dodge Ram 2500?” Asher sounded a bit incredulous.
“Is that what it is?” Sera was already drifting closer to it. Up close, it was even bigger, and she could see that someone—clearly not at the factory—had painted jaunty flames along its haunches. Man, this baby has it all, she thought. Big-ass tires? Check. Massive engine? If the hood was anything to go by, a whole herd of draft horses probably lived under there. Canine-friendly bed? Sera peeped up and over the flank of the blue beast and saw someone had left a blanket with some ready-made dog hair already on it. Never mind that she didn’t even have a dog. Maybe Asher would let her borrow his when Silver got old enough. She looked back at the Israeli, who had followed her to inspect the monstrous truck.
“I must be crazy to even consider this,” she murmured.
“Quite possibly,” Asher agreed.
“I mean, you practically have to wear a Stetson to even get behind the wheel of this beast,” she continued.
“I’m sure we can borrow one for the test-drive,” Asher replied. “I believe I saw a gentleman wearing one enter the dealership just a few moments ago. I bet he wouldn’t mind…”
Sera swatted Asher’s arm, her mood swinging dizzily with his teasing and her own swelling case of the fuck-its. “C’mon, Ash, you’re supposed to be talking me out of this.”
“Is that what I’m supposed to do?” he asked, feigning surprise. “I was under the impression I was here to help you buy a car.”
“A car, yes. A monster truck I probably can’t even drive, no.”
“You can’t drive? Ah, that explains a lot…”
Sera shot him a dirty look, then spoiled it with a rueful smile. “Well, I mean, of course I can drive. I passed my test and everything; I have a license—thanks to Pauline. I just never got that much practice living in New York City, you know?”
“What does Pauline have to do with your driving license?” Asher wanted to know.