The Florida sun was brutal that July afternoon, the kind of heat that makes your shirt stick to your skin the second you step outside. I’d flown down from Chicago to finally buy a place—something with a pool, close enough to the Gulf to smell the salt. My realtor, Kathy, picked me up at the hotel in her 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado, a gleaming black beast with a hood longer than most driveways. She was waiting at the curb, one tanned leg sliding out of the driver’s door before the rest of her followed.

Kathy had to be pushing fifty, but fifty looked damn good on her. Auburn hair twisted up in a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face. White linen blouse unbuttoned just enough to make you notice, navy skirt hugging hips that still remembered how to sway. When she smiled, little lines at the corners of her green eyes crinkled like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Hop in, sugar,” she drawled, voice low and sweet like iced tea with too much bourbon. “This old girl’s temperamental, but she’ll get us where we need to go.”

The Toronado’s interior smelled of leather and her perfume—something warm and spicy. I sank into the passenger seat, the red vinyl hot against my forearms. She turned the key. The 425 V8 rumbled awake, then promptly coughed and died.

“Lord, not again,” she muttered, pumping the gas once, twice. The engine caught with a throaty roar, and she flashed me an apologetic grin. “She floods if you look at her wrong. Takes a woman’s touch.”

We rolled out of the parking lot, windows down because the A/C was apparently “for decoration.” Every stop sign was a gamble. She’d ease off the gas, the big car would lurch, and the engine would choke like it was drowning. Kathy would curse softly under her breath, then lean forward, blouse shifting in ways that made the traffic lights irrelevant. She’d feather the pedal, sweet-talking the car—“Come on, baby, don’t do me like this”—until it caught again and we surged forward, tires chirping.

First house was a bust—too close to the highway. When we climbed back in, the Toronado stalled twice before it fired. Kathy laughed, low and husky. “See what I put up with? Some days I think she’s jealous of anyone else getting my attention.”

Second house had potential. While the listing agent droned on about granite countertops, Kathy leaned against the kitchen island, hip cocked, watching me with half-lidded eyes. Her fingers traced lazy circles on the cool stone. “Imagine coming home to this every night,” she said, and I wasn’t sure she was talking about the house.

Back in the car, the ritual again. Engine flooded worse this time. She pumped the pedal harder, the hem of her skirt riding higher on her thighs with every motion. Heat poured in through the open windows. A bead of sweat slid down her throat and disappeared beneath the linen. I shifted in my seat.

“Almost there, darlin’,” she murmured—to me or the car, I couldn’t tell. Finally the Toronado caught with a growl that rattled my teeth, and we shot out of the driveway like we’d stolen something.

By the fourth house, the game had changed. The car stalled in the shade of a banyan tree, refusing to start. Kathy let her head fall back against the seat, exposing the long line of her throat. “Well,” she sighed, “looks like we’ve got a minute.”

The air between us was thick as humidity. She turned toward me, one arm draped along the back of the wide bench seat, fingers brushing my shoulder.

“You know,” she said, voice barely above the tick of the cooling engine, “this car’s been with me since my divorce. She’s stubborn, high-maintenance… but when she finally gives you everything she’s got?” Kathy’s smile was slow and wicked. “It’s one hell of a ride.”

Her hand moved from my shoulder to the collar of my shirt, tracing the edge with one manicured nail. The Toronado flooded again when she tried to start it—on purpose, I think—coughing itself silent.

Outside, cicadas screamed in the trees. Inside, the only sound was our breathing and the soft click of her seatbelt unfastening.

“Tell me, sugar,” she whispered, leaning close enough that her lips brushed my ear, “you in the market for just a house… or something more?”

The engine finally caught an hour later, when the sun was low and orange over the palms. Kathy smoothed her skirt, started the car like nothing had happened, and glanced over with that same professional smile.

“Last listing’s a gem,” she said smoothly. “Waterfront. Very… private.”

The Toronado purred all the way there, no flooding at all.

Some machines, I learned that day, just need the right motivation.