Ghost-of-a-Chance
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Just now, I saw something absolutely smoking hot on the internet. I mean, she was a seriously sexy beast—the kind of beauty I see in my dreams and drool over in centerfolds, regardless of whether I’m in public. If I encountered her on the street, I would absolutely embarrass myself, stare like a loon, and profess my undying adoration to her.
A wolf-whistle, three muttered “damns,” and a couple of impressed tongue-clicks later, my husband gave in. Cold sighed, rolled his eyes, and grumbled, “just show me the car.”
He knows me so well. 😆 It was, in fact, a classic muscle car—a ‘67 Oldsmobile Tornado. In my defense the lines on this bad girl are what wet dreams are made of, and I pity Cold for his lack of taste. It’s a sad way to live.
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My daft bugger would be drooling right next to you. He still has a picture of his 1966 Chevy Bel Air on “his” bookshelf.
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My guy doesn’t get why I love classic cars so much, but you bet your butt he lets me drag him around car shows by his hand. I went absolutely fangirl over a sweet, rare classic in a parking lot awhile back—I won’t name it for risk of doxxing myself, but it’s something I’ve never seen in person, and it had a wooden chassis!—and Cold was just
“It’s a car,” the whole time. 😆 Your guy has good taste—Bel Aires are an instant squeal-fest in this family, Cold aside, and that was a great year!
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