The car smells of leather, and whiskey, and something else . . . something sweet and warm. Like sandalwood and saffron.

I’m speeding down Oak Street when a face pops up in the rear-view mirror. It startles me so much that I jerk the wheel to the left, almost plowing into a bus headed in the opposite direction. I have to swerve right to compensate, so the car fishtails back and forth several times before smoothing out again.

I think I let out a yell, and the person in the back gave a little shriek in return—betraying her as a girl.

I want to pull over, but I’ve got to make sure no one’s following me first. So I keep driving west toward the river, trying to catch another glimpse at my surprise passenger.

She’s hunkered down in the backseat again, obviously terrified.

“It’s alright,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I try to make my voice sound as gentle as possible, but it comes out in a rough growl as usual. I don’t know how to be charming to women in the best of circumstances, let alone when I’ve accidentally kidnapped one.

There’s silence for a minute. Then she squeaks, “Could you please . . . let me out?”

“I will,” I say. “In a minute.”

I hear a little gulp and rustling around.

“What’s that noise?” I bark.

“Just . . . just my dress,” she whispers.

“Why is it so loud?”

“It’s quite puffy . . .”

Right, of course. She was probably about to go inside the gala. Though I don’t know why her car was pulled to the side with no chauffeur in sight.

“Where was your driver?” I ask her.

She hesitates, like she’s scared to answer me. But she’s more afraid not to.

“I asked him to step out for a minute,” she says. “I was . . . upset.”

She’s sitting up a little straighter now, so I can see her face again. In fact, it’s almost perfectly framed in the rectangle of the rear-view mirror. It’s the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

There should be a better word than beautiful. Maybe there is, and I’m just not educated enough to know it.

What do you call it when you can’t tear your eyes away from a face? When you think you’re looking at the loveliest angle, and then the raise of an eyebrow or an exhale through the lips rearranges the features, and you’re freshly stunned all over again?

What do you call it when your heart is thudding faster than it did when there was a gun pointed at your face? And you’re sweating, yet your mouth is dry. And all you can think is, What the fuck is happening to me? Did I hit my head harder than I thought?

Her face is square, with a pointed chin. Her eyes are wide-set, almond-shaped, and golden-brown in color, like a little tigress. Her cheekbones and jawline are painfully sharp, while her wide, full mouth looks as soft as rose petals. Her hair is pulled up in a sleek chignon, showing off the slender stalk of her neck and her bare shoulders. Her skin is polished bronze—the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen.

Finding a girl like that in the back of the car is alarming. Like putting a quarter in a gumball machine, and the Hope Diamond tumbles out.

This can’t end well.

“Who are you?” I say.

“Simone Solomon. My father is Yafeu Solomon.”

She says those two sentences together, as if she’s used to introducing herself by way of her father. Which means he must be someone important, though I’ve never heard his name before.

I don’t give a fuck about him at the moment.

I want to know why she was crying alone in her car when she was supposed to be sipping champagne with the rest of the fat cats.

“Why were you upset?” I ask her.

“Oh. Well . . .”

I watch the color spread across her cheeks, pink suffusing the brown, like a chameleon changing color.

“I got accepted to a design school. But my father . . . there’s a different university I’m meant to attend.”

“What’s design school?”

“Fashion design . . .” She blushes harder. “You know, clothes and accessories and all that . . .”

“Did you make that dress?” I ask her.

As soon as I say it, I know it’s a stupid question. Rich people don’t make their own clothes.

Simone doesn’t laugh at me, though. She smooths her hands over the pink tulle skirt, saying, “I wish I did! It’s Ellie Saab Couture—similar to one that Fan Bingbing wore to the Cannes Film Festival in 2012. Hers had a cape, but the tulle and the beading in this sort of botanical shape . . .”

She breaks off. Maybe she saw that she might as well be speaking Mandarin for all I understood. I don’t know fuck all about fashion. I own a dozen white t-shirts and the same amount in black.

But I wish she wouldn’t stop. I like the way she speaks. Her voice is soft, elegant, cultured . . . the exact opposite of mine. Besides, people are always interesting when they talk about something they love.

“You don’t care about dresses,” she says, laughing softly at herself.

“No,” I say. “Not really. I like listening to you, though.”

“To me?” She laughs again. She forgot to be scared when she was talking about the dress.

“Yeah,” I say. “Is that surprising?”

“Well . . .” she says. “Everything about this is a little surprising.”

Now that I’m sure no one followed me, I’ve turned north and I’m driving almost aimlessly. I should get rid of the car—it’s probably been reported stolen. I should get rid of the girl too, for similar reasons. I could drop her off on any corner. And yet, I don’t.

“Do you have an accent?” I ask her. I think she does, but I can’t tell from where.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve lived a lot of places.”

“Where?”

“Well, I was born in Paris—that’s where my mother’s family lives. Then we moved to Hamburg, then Accra . . . after that, I think it was Vienna, Barcelona, Montreal for a while—god, that was cold. Then to DC, which wasn’t much better. After that I went to boarding school in Maisons-Laffitte.”

“Why were you always moving?”

“My father’s an ambassador. And a businessman.”

“What about your mom?”

“She was a chocolate heiress.” Simone smiles proudly. “Her maiden name was Le Roux. You know Le Roux truffles?”

I shake my head. I feel ignorant and uncultured next to Simone. Even though she’s so young, it sounds like she’s been everywhere in the world.

“How old are you?” I ask her.

“Eighteen.”

“Oh. You look younger.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

She laughs. “You look older.”

“I know.”

Our eyes are locked in that rear-view mirror, and we’re smiling at each other. Smiling much more than I usually do. I don’t know why we’re both so amused. There’s a sort of energy between us, where the conversation flows easily, and nothing we say seems out of place. Even though we’re strangers, in this ass-backward situation.

“Are you staying at The Drake?” I ask her.