And how many other people have driven it these past six months? Not a one. I will be the first.
Tank’s grin widens, like he knows he has me, which he does. In truth, it’s only partly because of the Aston. I’ll admit it—Tank sparked my curiosity about this town. There are so many questions, each of them breeding more questions like a couple of bunnies in my brain. I have to see what kind of town would inspire the Think Tank to buy it.
And what does that even mean—to buy a town? Do you get all the businesses and buildings? Or is it more of a batteries-not-included, assemble-at-your-own-risk kind of thing?
I chew my lip, willing my hands not to grab the keys. At least, not too quickly. I need to keep some semblance of my dignity about me.
Who am I kidding? I have less than a fluid ounce of dignity in my entire body. I snatch the keys and dart toward the door leading to the garage, like Tank might change his mind at any second. Because he might.
I don’t know if it’s because of Tank calling me the glue and saying I’m the one with vision, or maybe just the chance to drive the Aston, but excitement has me glowing from within. I’m like the Griswolds’ lit-up house in Christmas Vacation—at least, before the fuses blow.
I slide in, loving the way the leather molds to my body like a caress. The engine doesn’t roar to life so much as purr. I can sense her power and her need for speed. She’s just a big, beautiful jungle cat, wanting me to play with her.
Happy to oblige.
Tank folds his big body into the passenger seat, adjusting it for leg room.
“Just so we understand each other, this little road trip doesn’t mean I’m on board with your hare-brained scheme, Tank. I hope you at least asked for the return policy on towns.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, buckling his seat belt. “I don’t plan to return to sender it.”
“If you’re going to do the noun as a verb thing, there’s an art to it,” I tell him, revving the engine a little just to hear her purr.
Tank waves a hand toward the Texas morning sun slanting over the driveway. “Come on, now. Fast and Furious this thing. But legally.”
I groan. “You’re not going to stop with this, are you?”
“Not until you realize how stupid it sounds to verb nouns.”
“Well, then, let’s road trip this thing, Pops. Where are we headed, anyway?”
He laughs. “That’s right—I haven’t mentioned the best part about the town yet.”
“It comes with a pro football team and a whole bunch of gorgeous and single cheerleaders?”
He shoots me a dirty look. “No. The best part is the name. It’s called Sheet Cake, Texas.”
A strange sensation zips up my spine. One that leaves me uncharacteristically and uncomfortably silent.
“You have no response to that name? I thought you’d be tossing out jokes like candy from a parade.”
Oh, I have a response: No way is a town named after cake.
But I don’t say it now. I said it five years ago, to the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. She told me she was from a town called Sheet Cake. I teasingly called her a liar, she dumped her drink on my head, and thus began the shortest, most intense, and the only real relationship in my life.
Lindy was the One, and I totally screwed it all up.
And out of all the towns in the state of Texas, my dad unknowingly bought hers.
Chapter Two
Lindy
I try not to stare at my lawyer, whose hands are neatly folded on her desk.