Then I realized they weren't surrounding our Volvo, they were actually circled around Rosalie's red convertible, unmistakable lust in their eyes. None of them even looked up as Fredward slid between them to open his door. I climbed quickly in the passenger side, also unnoticed.
"Ostentatious," he muttered.
"What kind of car is that?" I asked.
"An M3."
"I don't speak Car and Driver," I said testily.
"That's doesn't make an M3 not a car... " he rolled his eyes, not looking at me, trying to back out without running over the car enthusiasts, adding, "It's a BMW model."
I nodded—I'd heard of that one.
"Are you still angry?" he asked as he carefully maneuvered his way around the growing crowd of car enthusiasts.
"Definitely."
He sighed. "Will you forgive me if I apologize?"
"Maybe... if you mean it. And if you promise not to do it again," I insisted.
His eyes were suddenly shrewd, calculating. "How about if I mean it, and I agree to let you drive Saturday?"
I considered, and decided it was probably the best deal I would ever get. "Deal," I agreed.
"Then I'm very sorry I upset you." His eyes burned with sincerity for a protracted moment—or maybe they smoldered? Smoked? I can't remember, their European rhythm playing havoc with my heart's own vibrations—before turning playful. "And I'll be on your doorstep bright and early Saturday morning."

224

Chapter 11

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