Isla
Iadjustthedriver’sseatin Brooks’s ridiculously expensive car, moving it forward to reach the pedals.
Brooks texted me this morning that I should stay away from him unless I wanted to experience a heinous stomach bug. Instead of him driving me to the rink to meet Spencer Davidson, I’m left with two undesirable options: take Brooks’s car or pay out the ass for a rideshare from downtown Palmer City to a small town on the outskirts of the city.
After taking a car without asking in high school, smashing it into a cement pillar, and getting grounded for a month, I have avoided driving anythingthisfancy. But I don’t have money to waste.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper as I start the car and begin driving at a snail’s pace.
I heave a sigh of relief when a coffee shop comes into sight. Consuming caffeine when my hands are already shaking isn’t the best idea, but I also didn’t sleep enough last night. This potential partnership with Spencer has occupied my every waking thought since the moment we first talked on the phone last week.
Aplunksnaps me out of my thoughts. My eyes dart around for the source of the sound, hoping it’s not what I fear. I let out a gasp when I see the driver’s side door of the pickup truck parked next to me resting against my passenger side door.
I snatch my phone and slip it into the side pocket of my zip-up hoodie as I tear out of the car. I’m careful not to let my door slam into the car on my other side. You know, like a decent human being.
The mark on the passenger side door isn’t as bad as I imagined, but it’s noticeable. For an overpriced car like this one, I’m sure the repair costs will total in the hundreds. Brooks shouldn’t have to pay for damage from some asshole who carelessly drives an obnoxiously large truck.
And I don’t have the money to pay for this, not without providing figure skating lessons for weeks, and that’s if I didn’t pay any other expenses. Brooks said he wouldn’t accept money from me while I stay with him, but I’m obviously going to ignore him.
“Excuse me!” I shout, speed walking after the menace who damaged my car like it was nothing. The man doesn’t turn. “Hello?”
He keeps walking as if I don’t exist.
“Hey, dude!” I shout again. “I’m talking to you.”
The teenager walking beside him glances at me. She slips an earbud out, then tugs on the man’s arm. “We’ve got company,” she mumbles.
He spins around, and my conviction falters in the face of the most ruggedly handsome man I’ve ever seen. His tousled dark brown hair—whichglintsin the sunlight—extends down to his collarbone. It’s the same color as the impressively sexy beard that covers thebottom half of his face, extending beneath his chin.My fucking weakness.
My treacherous eyes continue their perusal, from his flannel shirt with three buttons undone, to the hiked-up sleeves revealing a tattoo I can’t make out on one forearm. His dark wash jeans send my imagination running to inappropriate places about what exists beneath.
I swear one side of his mouth lifts when my studying of him registers. Damn it to hell. Sleep deprivation, stress, and maybe ovulation are to blame for this behavior.
“Do you need something?”
NoGood morning. NoHello. No,I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Red flashes behind my eyes, born from the unstoppable fury zipping through my body.
“You hit my car,” I spit the words at him, not bothering to hide my anger.
He narrows his eyes. “What?”
“Just now,” I continue, my voice gaining strength. “You opened your door and hit mine, and it’s damaged.”
“Damaged,” he repeats, raising one dark eyebrow.
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
The teenage girl’s eyes dart between us before dropping to her phone. Normally, I’d rein it in, grumble in the face of inconvenience, but chalk it up to a mistake. We’re all human, right? Everyone deserves a break, even this fucking guy.
But not after the unfairly handsome prick implied I’m not telling the truth.
He gestures toward Brooks’s car. “Show me this supposed damage.”
I march over to our cars, walk the line demarcating our parking spots, and crouch down to point out the gouge in the door. Sure, it’s small. Would I care if it were my car? No. But I’m not going home to break this news to my brother without this dude’s insurance information. “As I was saying—”
“That’s what damage looks like to you?” He runs a hand over his beard. “You must live a charmed life.”
I rise to my full height, not enjoying the dynamic of being looked down upon. It does nothing to erase our height difference. He towers over me, something I usually like in a man, but right now I despise the disadvantage.
