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Authors: Sandra Antonelli

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BOOK: Driving in Neutral
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It was possible, but just barely, that this stemmed from an unconscious worry about fading looks, or a fear that the lines near her mouth and eyes weren’t character or laugh ones, but
wrinkles
. The thing was, she had never worried about aging. It was bullshit that reaching a certain age meant you were instantly all washed up in life. The decree that demanded you were
supposed
to look and act and feel a certain way because you were chronologically forty, or fifty, or sixty was bullshit too. Those twenty-somethings in her apartment building would figure out eventually that it was all in how you felt, and Olivia felt good. She looked better in her forties than she had in her twenties, she had more confidence, had more experience, which of course didn’t mean she had more wisdom because she still made plenty of mistakes. Case in point Karl. Then again, perhaps, on a subconscious level, since she was sitting here thinking about age and wrinkles, and her abysmal record with men, and the fact her husband had fucked around on her with a younger woman, she
was
concerned.

Maybe she did buy into the advertising, and “Hollywood normal” and the double standard of aging that prized older men and devalued older women.

Uh-huh
. She jettisoned that theory as bullshit.

Her rational side knew that worrying about the route nature took was pointless. This was about history. Worrying about things that had already happened in life was as useless as thinking you could change the past—although the idea of time travel to make some alterations did have a certain appeal.

Given the opportunity, what would she change? She was who she was because of the good and bad experiences she’d had in life. She’d earned her laugh lines, her scars, and she wore them well. She’d chosen the path, the direction she wanted to take, but unlike driving, where you put your foot down on the accelerator to make time, there was no way to make up for the lost time in life, which to her was the most attractive aspect of time travel. Getting back the time she gave to Karl and Adam, the time she
wasted
on them, would have been nice.

Characters in time machine stories were always trying to fix bad marriages, muck with history to wipe out present-day mistakes, or bring back dead lovers. Peggy Sue, Marty McFly and the old Christopher Reeve Superman all played with time to fix something significant in their relationships. Olivia wasn’t interested in altering relationship history. There was no point to that. No, it was the other sort of lost time she’d fix, the meaningless time no one gave any thought to like washing the dishes, changing the sheets, and watching TV; the sort of time that had no impact on anyone’s life.

“How come nobody ever wanted to find some way to zip in and collect all those mundane minutes and combine them into a day to make up for what you wasted?” she wondered out loud.

“That pie looks good,” was the response she got.

Musings about time machines made out of DeLoreans, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and
Mr. Peabody’s WABAC Machine
ceased abruptly. She glanced up from the pie-covered tines of her fork.

Pete and Emerson Maxwell stood next to her booth.

Chapter 4

“Ella said you’d probably still be here.” Pete scratched his head. “But before you tell us to piss off, just give us a minute. Emerson’s got something to say. Don’t you, Em?” With a light punch to his friend’s shoulder, Pete moved away and headed for a seat at the counter.

Clad in the baseball shirt and suit trousers from the morning, Emerson broke a piece of crust from her squashed slice of pie and dabbed it into the lemon filling before popping it into his mouth. “Tasty,” he said.

“Yeah, and it only costs three-fifty. Need me to lend you some change so you can get your own?”

Emerson licked yellow goo from the corner of his mouth. “Listen, Pete doesn’t normally yell. That’s more my thing. He’s the quiet brain that drives the company and I’m the whip-cracking taskmaster figurehead with the usually great clothes. Don’t make him yell at me again. It was scary. Not as scary as Ella, but still frightening. I told him I could apologize appropriately enough to have you stay on. So don’t make me look bad. He’s watching.” Emerson pointed to the long dining counter where his nervous-looking best friend sat on a chrome stool.

Pete waved.

Emerson went on. “Please stay. Please. I’m a smartass. I know that.”

Olivia snorted.

“Okay, I’m an ass.”

She said nothing.

“All right. I’m a dick. I behaved…abominably and put you in an awkward position. Please accept my apology, let me buy your pie and come to work for Pete and me, so his sister doesn’t hire a contract killer.”

“You pay for my coffee too and I’ll call us square.”

He shifted, careful to keep weight off his knee. “And the job?”

She said nothing.

Clearly she needed—or more accurately—
wanted
more groveling. Emerson thought he was wasting his time, but he tried to grovel sincerely. “Yes, I was an absolute
asshole
. I’ll buy your pie, your coffee, and your dinner. No, make that I’ll buy coffee and pie whenever you want coffee and pie. We need your help.”

Again, she said nothing.

“Look, if you’re worried, if you’re thinking, everyone knows the tale, no one has to know it was you. Wait. Let me rephrase that. No one
will
know it was you.”

“Except those guys who saw me in the elevator with you. They’ll know.”

“I’ll fire them.”

She tried to hide her smile behind the swab of a paper napkin. “Uh-huh.”

“Consider them canned. They’re out. Unemployed on the sidewalk. They’ll be bums within two weeks.”

Olivia tossed the napkin on the table, raised her chin and inhaled. She chewed her bottom lip for a second before exhaling. Then she looked over at Pete and gestured for him to come to the table.

When Pete slid next to her in the booth, he looked at Emerson expectantly. “You going to sit down so we can talk a little business?”

Emerson didn’t like the distance between the seats and the table. Instead of slipping onto the bench across from them, he grabbed a chair from one of the square tables in the middle of the diner, and, limping, dragged it to the end of the table.

Fifteen minutes later, Pete paid the bill and the trio made their way to Olivia’s car in the lot beside the diner.

Pete whistled as his gaze wandered over the white body of the Aston Martin DB5 she’d stopped beside. “Is this what you’re racing around in these days, Liv?”

“I’ve always had a thing for English sports cars. The V12 Zagato is really hot. I had the chance to drive that last year.”

“Hey,” Emerson said, “is this the same car James Bond drove in
Goldfinger
and
Skyfall
?”

“Not quite. His was gunmetal gray and had an ejector seat.”

“I don’t know much about cars, but I know what I like and this,” Emerson’s eyes skimmed over Olivia and the car, “is a toy for a big boy. So what are you doing with it?”

“Oh, dear God,” Pete groaned, “I just worked out that for you, suits are like Samson’s hair. Without Gucci or Boss on your back you’re pathetic, inept, bumbling. That baseball shirt has sucked away all your finesse.”

“What?” Emerson’s hands shot up in a defensive, palms-up pose. “What did I say?”

“Do you know what Olivia does?”

“She’s a translator.” He looked at her. “You’re a translator, aren’t you?”

Olivia did nothing to hide her amusement. Laughing, she unlocked the driver’s side door.

Pete laughed too. “What the hell happened to you in that elevator today, Em? No, no. Sorry. Forget I asked. Forget I mentioned it, Liv. Don’t wanna know.” He cleared his throat. “You didn’t read her CV, did you Em? You didn’t even
glance
at it.”

“I didn’t exactly have time for more than that. You shoved it in my hand this morning, downstairs, just after you told me about the project. What did I need to read it for anyway? Was I going to say no to nepotism? So what else do you do, Olivia, what other mad skillz do you have that I missed?”

“She tests race cars.”

Olivia tossed her purse on the floor in front of the passenger seat. “I
used
to test race cars, Pete.”

“Yeah, but I still think of you racing and shooting around the track in that old Porsche.”

“Wait a second. You raced cars?” Emerson shot a glance to Pete. “She raced cars?”

“Once upon a time.” Olivia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, you thought Pete wanted me just to translate German?”

“Well…yeah. We needed someone to check out old pre-war race film footage and production documents. We needed someone to translate the German design simulation for an animated documentary.”

Annoyed, Pete whistled. “We needed someone to translate the design simulation as well as interpret the schematics and the language, not just translate the words. Do you know the difference between a translator and an interpreter?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me, Pete.” Emerson crossed his arms.

“Oh, never mind. Forget all that now. Olivia raced before she started working for BMW as a test driver and automotive engineer. Did you see that part of her CV, the bit about working for BMW?”

Emerson twitched a shoulder.

“Really, Em, you should read stuff instead of waiting for Finn to fill you in ten minutes before a meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow. Dress casually, Liv, and thanks for being sporting enough to put up with this dumbass.” He kissed her cheek and clipped a fist into Emerson’s arm. “Say goodnight, dumbass.”

“Keep calling me dumbass, Pete,” Emerson cocked his head to one side, “and you won’t get a goodnight kiss.”

“Neither will you.” Pete started walking backward toward a red Jeep Wrangler.

Emerson gestured, middle fingers on both hands extended.

With a grin bright in his dark face, Pete climbed in the Wrangler and stuck the keys in the ignition. Olivia laughed again and turned to get in her car too.

Emerson reached for the crook of her elbow. “Would you mind if I had a look inside before you got in?”

“Knock yourself out,” she said and moved aside.

Tech geek to the core of his soul, Emerson knew next to nothing about cars—beyond knowing how to change a tire and check the oil—but this white bit of British automotive technology appealed to the teenager inside him. It was sexy and he could appreciate that. Unfortunately, its compact size made it the type of car he would never consider owning or riding in. Regardless, he was curious. Hand on the headrest, he leaned in and checked out the car’s interior. “Is it a five speed?”

“Yes. And it has electric windows too. Are you disappointed there isn’t a secret panel that pops up a bulletproof shield or dispenses an oil slick?”

“No. It’s a nice car.” He propped himself against it, casually crossing his legs. “I like it.”

“So what do you drive?” she said. “I assume something roomier, less claustrophobic.”

While his thumb and forefinger stroked the point of his chin, Emerson looked at her sideways. “Guess.”

“Something like that white Lexus IS 300 sedan over there.”

“Are you sure I’m not the Cadillac or Mazda 6 kind of guy?”

“Yep.”

Pete shouted from the Jeep, “Hey, dickhead, let’s go!”

Emerson ignored his friend. “Why’d you choose the Lexus?”

The Aston Martin’s keys jingled as she twirled them on one finger. “I’d have picked a Mercedes C-Class or BMW 5 series. The Lexus there is the only car with a sunroof and you’re not the kind of man who has to try to compensate for anything. It’s the image that goes with your suits—but not that baseball shirt you’ve got on now. That says Ford Escort or Toyota hatchback.”

A
tsk
sound passed through his teeth. “Okay, you got me. I own a Mercedes, a blue one, and it’s home in the garage. Until my knee heals, Pete’s my chauffeur. So what does your
Goldfinger
car say about you?”

“Cars are better than diamonds.”

“I thought diamonds were forever.”

“So Shirley Bassey would have us believe.”

Olivia didn’t know how Maxwell did it, but one amused quirk of his lips hauled her all the way back to the elevator that morning. She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, warm, firm, expert. And then she wondered how he’d taste outside, in air scented by diner chili con carne and wet parking lot pavement. Would his chin whiskers rasp over her cheek? Would he get as hard as he had when she’d sat in his lap?

Pete leaned on the Jeep’s horn and thank God, it stopped her from thinking any further nonsense about touching and feeling and tasting.

The horn did nothing to put off Emerson’s one-track mind. Blasé, he waved a hand at the noise and said, “You’re not married, are you?” He smiled, but a worried crease suddenly appeared between his brows. “Well, I’m assuming since you kissed me you’re not married. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t assume anything,” he said.

Nonchalant, Olivia tucked hair behind one ear. “I was married.”

He sighed. “I’m divorced too. She said we grew apart because I made business more important than her.”

“And did you?”

“Probably. Karen was a good woman. Now she’s married to a dentist. They have four little girls, she’s happy and I’m happy for her. What’s your story?”

The keys on her fingers stopped swinging. He watched her breasts rise as she inhaled and exhaled with something he thought seemed like impatience. “Which story do you want, the one about my first or second husband?” she asked.

The space between his eyes and brow-line widened, arched skyward. “You’ve been married twice?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” she said. “I was eighteen and married my high school sweetheart right after graduation. Four months later he ran off with our landlady. I didn’t get married again until I was older and more sensible. Or thought I was more sensible.”

“I take it you’re recently divorced?”

“It took a while for the paperwork.” Olivia pushed a strand of hair out of her face and sighed. She was surprised he didn’t know the glossy scandal magazine details. But this was America, not Europe. Motorsport coverage here was usually limited to NASCAR and the Indy 500. “Karl,” she said, “engaged in a number of off-track events with a grid girl he met at the Australian Grand Prix. He made a few decisions that didn’t include me. Our divorce was finalized about seven months ago.”

BOOK: Driving in Neutral
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