Chapter 2: The Heiress’s Test and the Driver’s Dare

After he left, I started my new life.

The sun was just starting to climb over Maple Heights, painting the world in gold. I felt lighter than I had in years, like maybe—just maybe—things were about to turn around.

I’d heard plenty about the heiress’s princess attitude. Last time, she chewed my brother out for calling her from a payphone on Main Street. Welcome to Maple Heights.

She was infamous in town—sharp tongue, impossible standards. Everyone knew the story about her chewing out my brother in front of half of Main Street.

She figured, with her family’s money, why bother calling? Anyone in town could tell you where she lived.

It was the kind of logic only someone born rich could have. She expected the world to move for her, no questions asked.

To her, making a phone call just meant you didn’t have the smarts to figure things out—a definite strike against you.

She saw it as weakness. In her world, you made things happen or got left behind.

This time, I knew better. No rookie mistakes.

I grabbed a cab, tipped the driver to take the back roads, and showed up at her family’s mansion just as the morning dew started to fade.

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The place looked like something out of a Southern Living magazine—white columns, sweeping lawns, a wrought-iron gate that squeaked when it opened. I squared my shoulders and walked up the front steps, letter in hand.

After I handed the letter to the butler, he barely glanced at it before folding it up and saying, casual as can be:

He looked down his nose at me—probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth. “Did they tell you the pay? It’s $350 a month.”

“They did. That’s fine with me.” I answered, keeping my voice even.

Three-fifty was already better than what most truck drivers made around here.

In Maple Heights, folks drove for Walmart or the feed store for less, so I wasn’t about to complain.

The butler snorted. “Of course you’re fine with it. But I still need to see what you’re made of.”

He sniffed, full of himself, and waved a hand for someone to bring the car around.

He had the air of someone who’d been disappointed by too many small-town boys with big dreams. I could almost hear him thinking, "Let’s see if you crash the thing."

When the car pulled up, he pointed at it. “This is an import. Ever driven one? How’s your driving?”

His tone dripped with skepticism, like he was daring me to admit I’d never driven anything fancier than a Chevy.

“Not bad,” I said, keeping it modest.

No sense in bragging. I figured the car would do the talking for me.

He rolled his eyes, slid into the passenger seat, and barked, “Take it for a spin.”

He settled in with a huff, arms crossed, ready to nitpick every move.

I nodded and got in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the heiress—arms crossed, watching us with interest from a second-floor window.

Her silhouette was unmistakable—blonde hair, sharp jawline, eyes narrowed with curiosity. I wondered if she remembered last time, or if this was all new to her.

A slight smile tugged at my lips. I started the car, floored the gas, and let off the clutch.

The engine roared to life, wheels spinning as I punched it down the driveway. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, and the butler’s face turned sheet white.

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We shot out of the garage so fast the gardener dropped his rake. The butler’s hands clawed at the dashboard, knuckles white.

The butler screamed, his back slamming into the seat. White-knuckled, he gripped the handle for dear life.

He sounded like he was about to lose his lunch. “Stop! Stop the car!”

I ignored him, drifting smoothly around the first corner, then stomping on the gas again.

The world blurred by in a rush of green lawns and white fences. I felt a thrill I hadn’t felt in years—pure, reckless freedom.

After a dozen laps around the mansion, I finally parked at the gate.

I let the engine purr for a second, savoring the stunned silence, then killed the ignition and stepped out, cool as you please.

The butler staggered out, legs shaking, and before he could even curse me out, he threw up his lunch all over the driveway. I tried not to laugh.

The sight was almost comical—he doubled over, retching, while the gardener looked away, trying not to laugh. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

Once he recovered, face flushed, he pointed at me and yelled, voice cracking:

“You’re not qualified! Get lost!”

His voice cracked on the last word, but he tried to muster some dignity, straightening his tie as if that could erase what just happened.

I frowned. “Why?”

I kept my voice calm, but inside, I was itching for a real explanation. I’d aced his little test, and he knew it.

He was so mad, he could barely get the words out.

His lips trembled, and he jabbed a finger at the car. "Look at what you did to the car! If the young lady rides with you, she’ll puke her guts out!"

“Didn’t you say you wanted to see my skills? Anyone can drive straight. The real test is handling.”

I shot back, not backing down.

I let my words hang in the air, daring him to contradict me. The gardener, still within earshot, smirked behind his hand.

He fumed, “Get out, get out! I don’t have time for this!”

He stomped his foot like a toddler denied dessert. I had to bite back a grin.

But I stood my ground.

I squared my shoulders and met his glare, refusing to budge. This job was mine now, whether he liked it or not.

“You don’t get to decide. I’m here to drive for Miss Whitlock, not for you.”

I made sure my voice carried, just in case she was listening from the window.

He was so angry, I thought he might actually swing at me.

His fists clenched at his sides, but he caught himself just in time—probably remembering who signed his paychecks.

“I’m the butler here! If I don’t decide, who does?!”

His voice was shrill, desperate. I almost felt bad for him, stuck in the middle like this.

I just smiled, gently moving past him and giving a polite nod as the heiress approached.

I stepped aside, letting her take center stage. She moved with a confidence that said she was used to getting her way.

She looked me up and down.

Her gaze was sharp, sizing me up like I was a new pair of shoes she wasn’t sure about yet.

“Not bad driving. Where’d you learn?”

Her tone was cool, but there was a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

I grinned, confident. “Self-taught.”

I let my answer hang, hoping she’d read between the lines. I’d learned a lot more than just driving, but that was a story for another day.

Her name was Savannah Whitlock. She was younger than me.

She was the kind of girl you’d see on the cover of a fashion magazine—sharp, stylish, and utterly fearless. Her reputation for wild parties and fast cars was legendary in Maple Heights.

Like most kids her age, she loved speed and thrills—only, with her family’s money and power, she played even harder.

She’d once rented out the local go-kart track for her birthday and made everyone race in evening gowns. The town still talked about it.

Last time, she’d even sent my brother to a racing club to train, hoping he could win her some glory. But he had no talent, finishing dead last and getting kicked out soon after.

He came home sulking, claiming the cars were rigged. Savannah never gave him a second chance.

I was different. After being taken in as a local tycoon’s godson, I’d gotten to know the racing crowd and even racked up some wins.

Those nights at the track taught me more than any driving school ever could. I learned how to read a curve, how to spot a bluff, how to win without burning bridges.

So, driving a regular car like this was a walk in the park.

I could have done it blindfolded, one hand on the wheel, radio blasting Springsteen.

“He’s too reckless! We should get someone else!” the butler whined, desperate.

He looked like he was about to faint. Savannah just rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with his theatrics.

I had to wonder how someone this clueless ever got to be a butler. Couldn’t he tell his boss was interested in me?

I couldn’t help but think he was more interested in gatekeeping than actually doing his job.

I gave a small nod, gesturing invitingly.

I opened the passenger door for her, giving a little flourish like I’d seen in old movies. "Miss Whitlock, would you like to experience some real speed and excitement?"

She perked up instantly, buckled her seatbelt, and grinned.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Not here—let’s go somewhere more exciting. If you do well, I’ll pay you a thousand a month!"

I nodded, floored it, and left the butler coughing in a cloud of exhaust.

The car fishtailed as we peeled out, the butler’s curses fading behind us. Savannah laughed, tossing her hair back, and I felt a surge of adrenaline.

The special spot was right next to the nursing home—a brand new city road not yet open to traffic.

It was the kind of place only the locals knew about, perfect for late-night drag races and secret meetups. The asphalt was still smooth, untouched by the daily grind.

A lot of rich kids hung out there, racing their cars for fun.

The air buzzed with the sound of engines and the smell of gasoline. Someone had brought a boom box, and classic rock blared across the empty stretch.

When we arrived, Savannah strutted over to her friends, bragging that she’d found a real racer.

She was in her element, tossing out jokes and daring glances. The crowd parted for her like she was royalty.

But her friends didn’t buy it, especially the guys, who all shot me skeptical looks.

They sized me up, whispering behind their hands. I could tell they weren’t impressed—yet.

The ringleader, a blond, came over to show off his souped-up Ford Fiesta, taunting me, “Ever seen one of these?”

He revved the engine, grinning like he’d just invented horsepower. The car was tricked out with racing stripes and neon underglow.

Before I could answer, Savannah cut him off.

She didn’t miss a beat. "Quit showing off! Should I bring out my family’s Ferrari to put you in your place?"

“Listen up, everyone. Today, I’m picking my new driver. If he can keep up with you for a lap, he’s hired!”

She laid down the law, her voice cutting through the chatter. Everyone turned to look at me, sizing up the competition.

She turned to me mid-sentence, “Hey, what’s your name again?”

I almost laughed at the abruptness. "Kevin Miller," I answered quickly.

“Okay, Kevin, your future’s riding on this. Don’t worry—I won’t let them use souped-up cars, just to be fair.”

She winked, letting me know she had my back—at least for now.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said calmly.

I let the words roll off my tongue, cool and unbothered. The crowd snickered, but Savannah just smiled.

Everyone burst out laughing, calling me a show-off.

Someone shouted, "Hope you brought a spare pair of pants, rookie!" I just shrugged, already sliding into the driver’s seat.

I ignored them and got in the car.

The seat was still warm from Savannah’s last ride. I adjusted the mirrors, gripped the wheel, and waited for the signal.

Engines roared to life. At the starter’s signal, four cars shot forward like arrows.

The world narrowed to the stretch of blacktop ahead, the roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber. My heart pounded in my chest, but my hands were steady.

Their cars had the edge on straightaways, but corners were my specialty.

I let them surge ahead, then cut inside on the first turn, tires squealing. The crowd’s cheers faded behind me as I took the lead.

After a few beautiful drifts, the others slowed down, dropping out of the race.

They couldn’t keep up—one by one, they fell back, waving as I passed. Savannah’s eyes were wide with excitement.

When I got out, everyone stared, stunned, then started praising my skills.

The blond guy was the first to break the silence, clapping me on the back. "Damn, man, where’d you learn to drive like that?" The others joined in, slapping me on the shoulder and peppering me with questions.

The blond was so impressed he begged me to try his car for a few more laps.

He handed me the keys, practically bouncing on his toes. "Just one lap, man—please!"

After a few rounds, he was beside himself with excitement, jealous that Savannah had found such a great driver.

He grumbled, "You’re wasted as a chauffeur. Should’ve joined NASCAR."

Savannah was thrilled. She hired me on the spot—$1,000 a month.

She pulled me aside, grinning from ear to ear. "You’re hired. Don’t let me down, Kevin."

Still giddy, she was about to head home when she suddenly paused.

Her eyes lit up with a sudden idea. "Hey, come with me to the nursing home."

I racked my brain, but couldn’t recall her ever visiting the nursing home in my previous life.

It was a strange twist, one I hadn’t seen coming. Maybe the timeline was already shifting.

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A ripple of anticipation ran through me. I wondered what else might change—what other surprises this second chance had in store.

I didn’t think much of it. In fact, I was a little excited—maybe I’d get to see if my clueless, ungrateful brother was already starting to regret his choices.

A little part of me hoped he was. I wanted to see the look on his face when reality hit.