Rachel
Caine drove a stick shift, a little old Porsche that had been meticulously maintained. I don’t know anything about cars, but I suspected it was a classic and had more value than a new one. It seemed to fit him—expensive, yet sexy and understated.
I’d never been so happy to be stuck in traffic. Caine had to constantly change gears, and something about the way his large hand gripped the shifter just worked for me. Not to mention his forearm…and that damn vein. God help me. I was still finding a vein attractive.
Caine noticed me watching him. “Do you know how to drive a manual?”
“No. I tried once, and I hurt my nose.”
His brows drew down. “You hurt your nose?”
“I kept stalling, and the car would jerk. On the fifth or sixth time, I was letting off the clutch and starting to move,
