"Welcome, Sam," Carly said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Beautiful place, isn't it?"
"It is, but it doesn't hold a candle to you."
"I like the sound of that..."
Vroom—
As they spoke in hushed tones, a sleek sports car pulled up onto the plaza in front of the Space Mountain Museum. The door swung open, and a man in a racing suit stepped out, carrying his helmet under one arm.
He was of medium build, neatly bearded, and walked with an easy stride straight toward Sam and Carly.
"Who's that?"
"My boss, Dylan Gould," Carly smoothed down her skirt, adjusting her composure. "He's pretty cool."
Noticing Sam's puzzled look, she added, "He's an avid racer. Won quite a few championships."
Racing? Sam cast a quiet glance at the expensive vehicle parked behind the man, thinking dismissively to himself:
Big deal. He'd never outrun me and Bumblebee.
"Sam, Dylan Gould," Dylan pulled off a racing glove and extended his right hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Sam took his hand, offering a polite smile. "Great to meet you too."
Dylan Gould was the young tycoon Carly worked for. Under forty years old, he was practically a kid compared to the usual circle of elderly collectors.
After the introductions, Dylan led the way into the museum. With the owner himself escorting the guest, the attendant at the front desk naturally had the sense not to ask for an invitation.
"Carly mentions you all the time, Sam."
"Same here. She always talks about her cool boss. And by the way, this place is incredible, looks like a starship."
Dylan paused mid-step, then chuckled smoothly. "Thank you. Truth be told, this place was a complete mess before Carly took over, but she got everything running like clockwork."
As they spoke, they entered the main exhibition hall.
The floor was filled with automobiles, mostly vintage classics, along with a few rare prototypes from the turn of the century, all from world-renowned marques.
"I'm heading back to Pebble Beach this year to bring home another trophy for the shelf."
Dylan pointed toward a dedicated showcase filled with an array of trophies: gold, silver, bronze, catching the light in a dazzling spread.
Seeing Sam staring at the display, a glint of quiet calculation crossed Dylan's eyes. "Know why I'm so confident?"
"Uh... why?"
"Because of the gorgeous lady standing right next to you," Dylan gestured toward Carly. "She's my secret weapon."
"Please, Mr. Gould," Carly laughed, shaking her head. "You're exaggerating. I just handle your travel schedule. Anyone could do it."
"Not true at all."
"Oh?"
"You're far more than that, Duchess," Dylan bantered with Carly, paying no mind to Sam, whose expression was turning noticeably colder by the second.
"Without my chief of logistics taking care of every little detail, how could I focus on pushing the limits on the track?"
"Wow," Sam cut in, barely maintaining a polite grin. "'Duchess.' Personal nickname, huh? Cute..."
"Exactly," Dylan continued effortlessly, as if oblivious to the shift in Sam's mood.
"My father started with a ten-dollar desk and a dream, building what became the largest accounting firm in the country."
"I got into venture investments after he passed. I like betting on winners before they break out. Collecting cars keeps my mind sharp so I can make the right calls."
"I've always said running a country is simple, but managing a high-value art collection is another story, especially when those pieces are heavy machines that rust if you look at them wrong."
"Take a look at this one," Dylan walked over to a red roadster, patting the polished hood.
"A 1939 Delahaye 165 Cabriolet. Look at those curves, absolute perfection."
"Always reminds you of a woman's silhouette, makes you want to get behind the wheel and drive..."
As he spoke, Dylan's gaze lingered on Carly. Sam, entirely uninterested in the car, watched Carly's reaction closely.
Fortunately, Carly merely offered a polite smile and an occasional nod, seemingly oblivious to the strange tension building in the room.
"What is all this?"
Walking further into the gallery, Sam's attention was caught by a display wall.
As he got a clear look at what was mounted there, his face went completely rigid.
The white wall was covered with framed photographs, and the subjects were unmistakable: his girlfriend Carly, and the man he had taken an instant dislike to, her boss Dylan.
Every single shot was of the two of them. Sam scanned them one by one. In the photos, Carly was radiant, dressed like a paddock model.
Dylan wore a different racing suit in nearly every picture.
There were shots of them sitting together on the hood of a race car, holding up a trophy side by side, and one where Carly was gently dabbing sweat from Dylan's forehead with a towel.
Even without overt physical contact, the easy intimacy and the way they leaned into each other made their connection look far from ordinary.
It hardly looked like a simple working relationship between an employer and an employee.
Worse, these photos were hung in the main gallery for every visitor to see day in and day out.
"I haven't seen this one before," Carly stepped up beside Sam, pointing to a recent photo on the wall.
"Just went up recently. Quite a day, wasn't it?" Dylan touched the frame, smiling as he explained.
"Oh, right!" Carly laughed in recognition. "Mr. Gould, your pants were so tight that day."
"Were they? I'll make sure to throw them out later then."
"Sam," Dylan turned back to face him suddenly. "What do you think?"
"Great pictures," Sam ground out, unsure whether Dylan was asking about the photography or tossing out the pants. He turned around without another word and walked straight toward the exit.
His first visit to Carly's workplace had turned out to be an absolute disaster.
Filled with frustration, Sam walked out without saying goodbye.
"Sam! Sam, wait!" Carly hurried out of the museum, catching up with him on the plaza. "What happened? Why did you just walk off?"
"What, was I supposed to stay inside and let him run circles around me?"
"You're judging people on appearances!" Sam kept moving toward his faded yellow Camaro. "Just because I drive an older car, he treats me like a nobody, and you just stood there and let him talk down to me?"
"What are you talking about?" Carly asked, genuinely puzzled. "Sam, you're being way too sensitive."
"He's my employer. Put it this way: the roof over our heads, the food on the table, it all comes from his paycheck."
"Yeah, I get the point, but I'm done caring," Sam shrugged, pulling out his keys to unlock the driver's door.
"I know you've been taking care of things."
"But guess what? I'm not freeloading anymore. Starting today, I'm earning my own keep."
"See this?"
Carly glanced down toward his beltline, shaking her head with an amused smile.
Clunk.
Sam shut the door, rolling down the window to look at her standing by the curb. "Get in, Duchess."
"Oh, please!" Carly finally caught on, wide-eyed. "Are you jealous? You're actually jealous of my boss?"
"Ha!" Sam started the engine, burying his face in his hands over the steering wheel, laughing sarcastically. "Jealous? Why would I be jealous?"
"Over his museum? His money? His looks?"
"None of it! I'm just happy because I finally have a real job!"
"Oh, come on," Carly slipped into the passenger seat, settling in. "Has anyone ever told you that you're adorable when you throw a tantrum?"
"Put on your seatbelt. I came straight here after work for you, and now I just want to go home."
"Sam, plenty of people try to flirt with me. You need to trust me. I know how to handle professional boundaries."
"Hold on," Sam cut her off, his tone turning serious. "It's the way you play along that bothers me, got it?"
"You two look like a..."
He bit his tongue before the words like a couple slipped out.
"Alright, point taken," Carly nodded quickly, pushing her hair back and unhooking her earrings before softening her voice with a pout.
"No more laughing at his jokes, I promise. Not a single smile..."
Faced with her playful apology, Sam's frustration melted away.
"See? You know exactly what works on me..."
Vroom—
Three minutes later, the engine gave a throaty rumble as the Camaro pulled away from the curb and merged into the evening traffic.
As they drove off, neither Sam nor Carly noticed a pair of eyes watching them intently from a third-floor window of the museum.
"Boss," a burly man in a dark suit stepped into the office.
"What is it?" Dylan pulled his gaze from the window, rubbing his temples.
"Word just came through from our contact. The master wants to see you."
"Location?"
"Ukraine."
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