“If you release me halfway through, it’ll be way worse.”
“No, wait?—”
“Hold on like your life depends on it.”
“Mister! Stop?—”
“Dean.” He flashes a wide, arrogant grin. For just a moment in time, his eyes glitter with kindness. With happiness.Perhaps even a little flirty-ness. “My name’s Dean Warner.”
“Uh…”
“And you are?”
“Anna?”God, why do I say it like a question?“Anna Maxwell.”
He closes one eye, squeezing it tight. “And just so’s I know I’m not seeing things; did you just hit me with a…” He peeks past me and stops those not-brown-eyes on my pride and joy. My baby. My whole life. “A Plymouth Road Runner? Nineteen-sixty-seven?”
“Sixty-nine, actually.” I gulp. “Why?”
“It’s sexy. Now get ready, Anna Maxwell.” He cups my face with his hand—the onenotattached to a bum arm—stunning me into silence and stroking my cheek like it’s entirely normal to do such a thing with someone you met literally three seconds ago. “Don’t let go of my arm. And don’t call an ambulance.” He draws a long, noisy breath in preparation. “I’ll walk this off once we’re done.”
“What? Wait!”
He spins, his roar matching my scream, and the deafening POP of his arm slipping back into its socket echoing amongst the trees. Then he drops to his knees, his face turning a nasty shade of green. “Fuck.” He presses one hand to the snow and heaves. “Gonna take a nap for a sec. Back soon.”
“No, wait?—”
Splat!
He face-plants onto the road with a pained grunt.
TWO
ANNA
“Shit! Damn. Ouch!” I bang my elbow against my car door and struggle under Dean’sat leasttwo hundred pounds. He’s the muscular kind of heavy. The has-an-at-home-gym kind. And for right now, he’s only about ten percent lucid, which leaves me carrying ninety percent of his heft. “Mr. Warner? Dean?” I drag his feet out of my car, place his boots on my snow-covered driveway, and straddle his thick thighs. He lies across my backseat, his body twisted to make my two-door access workable. He’s soaked to the bone after his nap in the snow, and bruises continue to sprout with each minute we place between our collision and now.
God. I’m totally going to prison!
I dig my arms under his broad body and drag him closer. “You don’t get to declareno hospital, then force me to carry you the whole time. I need your help!”
He wraps his arms around my shoulders and yanks me down.
I land against his chest with a grunt, push up until my back strains under his load, and ignore the incessant vibration of my phone in the front seat. “Dean!” I smack his ribs—bad Anna!—and try again. “Ineedyou to work with me, dude. I can’t carry you on my own, and if we stay in my yard much longer, the cops are gonna come by. I’m serious?—”
He drives me back with a hand on my shoulder, wiggles out from his awkward S-shaped position in the back, and surges to his feet. Spinning with a groan and pressing his good arm to the roof of my car, he sways dangerously to the left.
“O-okay.” I step in his way and provide a bookend for him to lean against. “Good. We’re out.” I glance along the street and spy Mel’s front door just three houses down. The porch light is still on, and Nick’s old-as-Eve truck sits on the road. Then I peek the other way.
The local cops patrol our street every damn night, cruising through the dark like clockwork, and Jesus-take-the-wheel, I justknowit’s about that time of the evening. If they catch us out here, they’re gonna ask who Dean is. After that, they’ll ask why he looks like he’s been hit by a car.
Because he was!
“You’re doing great. Come on.” I grab his hips and carefully pull him away from the car. Sliding under his good arm, I take his weight and risk a hernia. Maybe deviated discs in my back. “Let’s get you inside. Maybe take an ibuprofen or something.”
Yeah. That’ll fix it.
“Why were you walking in the street, anyway?”
