As the Lexus LS500 rolled through the clean, palm-lined streets of Beverly Hills, James kept one hand on the wheel and the other holding Leslie's hand.
The morning sunlight filtered through the windshield, casting a golden glow across the sleek interior of the vehicle.
Leslie sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed neatly, scrolling through boutique catalogs on her phone.
Her hair fluttered gently from the open vent, and she looked as effortlessly elegant as the street they were headed to.
Their conversation was light — banter about fashion, with Leslie throwing in a few jokes about how James had no business picking his own clothes.
"I'm telling you," she grinned, glancing at him.
"If I let you walk in there alone, you'd come out looking like a hedge fund intern at his first trust fund mixer."
"And if I let you dress me without supervision, I'll probably end up on GQ's front page before I know what hit me." James smirked.
