“I know,” he said, grabbed her up, hugged her hard, and kissed her.
“Papa, can I drive it?”
Not for another twenty years or so, but he said, “Sure. Your legs have to grow a bit more so you can reach the brakes, though.”
“I can sit on your lap!”
Like that’ll ever happen, Savich thought, reached out and ruffled his son’s black hair. Sean looked as excited as his father, his eyes back on the Porsche.
“Here are your keys. No, Sean, you can ride with your father next time. This first time, well, he has some bonding to do, it’s a man and his machine sort of thing.”
Savich took the keys from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and without another word, grabbed the end of the huge red bow—exactly the same blast-off red as the Porsche—and pulled it loose. He threw it back over his shoulder, like a bride with her garter, and everyone laughed. It was Dane Carver who shouted, “I got it! What do you think, Nick? How about a new Porsche in hissy-fit yellow?”
Savich opened the door and eased down into the driver’s seat. He closed his eyes and inhaled the rich-as-sin leather smell, let the seat enfold him. He put the key in the ignition, and felt the Porsche all but hum around him as the powerful engine roared to life. Ah, sweet music for the universe.
He threw back his head, marveling at the perfection of the world and his place in it, eased the gear shift into first, and pressed lightly on the accelerator. Well, lightly at first.
Everyone heard him laughing as the Porsche roared out of the Maitland driveway and attacked the road.