My plans are to soak until I’m turned into a wrinkled puddle of woman in my bathtub, drink an entire bottle of Oak Ridge wine, and then pass out with a cooking show on in the background.
But this man doesn’t need to know that.
And, frankly, his destination isn’t more important than mine.
I lift my phone, pointing the screen in his direction. “This ismyride. See?”
His expression hardens, but only for a moment before he leans in and seems to stare at my phone. He straightens, eyes flicking to the back of the car, and something strange crawls across his hazel eyes.
It almost looks like amusement.
But that can’t be right because he steps back, waves a hand toward the open door, and says, “My mistake.”
I scowl at him.
That’s right.
It’shismistake.
Chin lifting, huff escaping, I dump my bag onto the seat and slide in, reaching for the door?—
Only to find my fingers brushed away again.
The man pokes his gorgeous head in, one dark lock of hair falling over his face, calling for female fingers to push it back. “I’ll get that for you.”
Before I can reply, he’s shutting it, stepping back again.
Men.
Ugh.
I sigh and start to settle back on the leather seat.
Only I freeze, horror slicing my insides to ribbons.
Because I hear the driver ask, a bit incredulously…
“Jace?”
And I realize that this isn’t my car after all.
Two
Jace
I’m just openingthe other rideshare app I have on my phone to call for another car—because apparently I have a ride in progress—when a sedan pulls up to the curb, rolls down the window.
A hunch has me looking toward the driver, who asks with a confused expression, “Marie?”
Marie.
Hmm.
I wouldn’t have predicted that name for the brunette with the striking green eyes.
Maybe an Amber or Felicity or Brittany.
Something akin to basic bitch.
