Grayson navigated the dark green Land Rover down the main strip with the slow, deliberate speed of a parade float. His knuckles were pale against the worn leather steering wheel, his dark eyes scanning the diagonal parking spots along the curb with intense, analytical scrutiny.
"Grayson," Mailah said gently, resting her hand on his knee. "There's a spot right there. Between the blue pickup and the sedan."
Grayson didn't even slow down. "The sedan is resting three inches over its painted boundary line. If I park adjacent to it, the clearance on your passenger side will be reduced to seventeen inches. You would be forced to twist your hips at an unnatural angle to exit."
"I can twist my hips, Grayson," she said, amused. "I'm twenty-six, not made of glass."
