Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

Gardenias.
    “Matt. We did that prom night thing, way back months ago.”
    “That was you taking me to my high school prom, the one I never went to. This is me taking you to yours, the one you went to but never liked.”
    Temple brought the gardenias to her nose. Did any scent in the world pack such an intense emotional punch? “I had a prom night,” she said. “You didn’t.”
    “That’s the single nicest thing anyone ever did for me. Thought I’d return the favor.”
    “You don’t have to. I’m a veteran. Been there, done that.”
    “Not the right way. You asked why I bought the Crossfire. I bought it to take you to the prom.”
    “Me? Your car? Why?”
    “Don’t you remember? Curtis Dixstrom and his father’s dweeby Volvo station wagon?”
    “Oh, yeah. I told you that so long ago and you remember every detail? No, the most handsome popular guy in school didn’t ask me to the prom. Yes, I was humiliated going with some fourth-tier guy who wanted an excuse to get a lot closer to me than I ever did to him. But... that’s life. That’s high school. I’m ashamed I was ever so stupid and shallow. If I ran into some Mr. Hot Stuff Who Didn’t Ask Me today I’d be bored to tears in two minutes. I bet my actual date would be a lot more interesting. I grew up. He grew up. The guys and girls who had it all in high school never did. You don’t have to make up one damn thing to me.”
    “But I want to.”
    He’d bought a thirty-five-thousand-dollar car just to take her back on a sentimental journey! Should she just say no? Hell, no!
    “Oh. Well. The wrist corsage is—”
    “I remembered that dress didn’t allow for anything pinned onto it.”
    “So... gardenias. Thank you. I’ve always looked for a perfume that duplicated their scent but everything artificial overpowers reality.”
    “Overpowering reality. That’s what this is about.”
    Matt brought out a crystal plate of hors d’oeuvres, an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, and two crystal flutes.
    Temple recognized the products of the best caterer in town.
    “Um, this is a big cut above the prom buffet table of Ritz Crackers and Cheese Whiz and seriously nonalcoholic punch.”
    “The past can be improved upon; that’s what this is all about. Have a seat.”
    Just as Temple was about to ask where, he picked her up by the purple taffeta waist and set her atop the Crossfire’s warm hood.
    “A rough road trip out into the deep desert,” she observed. “Serving as an impromptu buffet table. That’s a heck of a way to treat an expensive new car, Devine.”
    He sat on the other side of the hood, so they were facing in opposite directions, like on those old Victorian seating pieces. Courting sofas.
    She held her flute up for a bubbly infusion. The music on the CD pulsed softly.
    “Won’t the battery die?”
    “I put the headlights on parking. They’ll last for hours. Long enough, I hope.”
    Long enough for what?
    But the shrimp and salmon and cream cheese and all the chilled appetizers were a piquant contrast with the thick soupy warm desert air. And the dry champagne went down like very sophisticated Sprite.
    Temple was swinging her feet against the front tire to the rhythm of Rod Stewart’s romantic anthem “The Rhythm of My Heart.”
    “Great soundtrack,” she said when the edge was off her hunger and the champagne flute was on its third refill. “To whom do we owe the pleasure?”
    “Ambrosia of WCOO-AM.”
    “Your boss? The Queen of Late Nite Music to Sigh By?”
    “Yeah. I asked her for the appropriate background music. Some of it’s thirteen years old and some of it’s today.”
    “And all of it’s classic.” Temple set her flute on the Crossfire hood, mellow enough not to worry about maltreating a hot car.
    “Shall we dance?” Matt asked.
    She was ready to jump off to the ground herself but he was there to catch her, and before you could say “Canadian Sunset” they were slow dancing, swaying to the music.
    No. That was on the radio. The car CD, rather.
    Temple’s corsage-bearing left hand (with Max’s emerald ring on the middle, not the third, finger) was resting on Matt’s shoulder. She and Max had danced around the marriage question a few times, but that was two years ago, when their romance was as fresh as a daisy and as hot as a hibiscus and anything seemed possible. Not lately. Max was married to the mob lately. The counterterrorism mob. Danger was his sole dancing partner. Temple had defended