We took the Mercedes.
Not the DB11. The Mercedes-AMG GLE 43. Obsidian Black. The practical one. The DB11 was Kent roads and V12 romance. The Mercedes was Wednesday night in London and a parking space that actually existed.
Emma came out of the apartment at seven-forty-five.
Black dress. Not trying to be noticed. Not needing to. It fitted her the way her yoga pants fitted her: like it had been designed around her body rather than for it. Red hair down, loose, the way I liked it, which she knew. Heels that added three inches and changed everything about how she moved. Shorter stride. Hips shifting. The whole geometry of her different.
She'd done something with her eyes. Makeup. Green made greener. I wasn't supposed to notice. I noticed.
"You're staring," she said.
"We haven't left the car park."
"Exactly. Start the car, Danny."
I started the car.
