The drive. The car. The asshole who slammed the door in my face.
Tap tap tap.
I jump at the sound and look out the window to see the guy from last night standing right outside the driver’s side door, looking pissed.
Great. Just great.
I’m beginning to think this guy doesn’t have any expressions other than pissed, except maybeextremelypissed; though, to be fair, he probably thinks I camped out in his driveway all night with the sole purpose of ambushing him first thing in the morning.
I spare a quick glance at my phone, hoping to check the time, only to find that it followed in the footsteps of my poor, pathetic car and decided to die on me.
Perfect.
Sighing, I flick the lock on the door before easing it open, forcing the man to step away from the car. I can already feel my messy hair frizzing in this awful humidity, but that’s the least of my worries. My back’s stiff, my neck aches, and I’m sure I have dark bags under my eyes caused by the maybe-four hours of sleep I was able to get last night. Despite all this, I somehow manage to give my wake-up call what I hope is a winning smile, praying there’s no crusted drool coating the side of my mouth. I’m careful not to blow my morning breath in his face.
“Good morning!” I say, bright and cheery.
He doesn’t respond, just glares at me, but I hardly notice because seeing this man in the early morning light has a completely different effect.
And all I can say isdamn.
Now, I come from a small town, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t encountered some good-looking guys over the years. There was Corey, my middle school crush, who had dimples to die for and ocean blue eyes you wanted to dive into. And Justin, one of the regulars at the diner where I waitressed, who had biceps as big as my waist and shoulders he could barely shove through the doorframe. And then there was Leo, the star-athlete son of our neighbor down the street. On occasion, he’d mow the lawn shirtless and give the entire block a show.
But none of those guys hold a candle to the man before me, because my sister’swhateveris more than handsome. He’sstrikinglyhandsome, as in way too good-looking for his own good. My eyes bounce from one feature to the next in disbelief. The strong, sharp jaw, the high, angular cheekbones, the dark eyebrows that hover over darker eyes. Words likechiseledandsculptedpop into my head without permission, and I forcefully shove them out because there’s no reason for me to be ogling this man, especially when I hear the next sentence that comes out of his mouth.
“When I told you to get lost last night, I meant it.” His voice is even less friendly than yesterday, something I wouldn’t have thought possible. My eyes scan over his face the way they would a road map, noting that each feature—the drawn brows, the clenched jaw, the prominent scowl—is a clear warning sign toturn back now. Especially the scratch under his left eye, accompanied by a subtle, faded bruise. I wonder what caused the damage, because it should really be illegal to mar such a stupidly attractive face. “And yet you’re still here, blocking my driveway with this eyesore.”
I blink at him.Eyesore?I can’t help but feel a little miffed by his description of my car. It’s old, sure, but it’s not a rusted heap of trash. Yes, there are a few minor scratches and scuffs on the bumper, and there’s a small ding on the hood, but it’sclean, at least. And judging by some of the fast-food-littered dashboards you’d find around Green Haven, that’s a pretty huge achievement.
I soldier on like there’s still hope of winning him over, schooling my own expression into one of clear innocence. “I know what you said last night, and I had no intention of blocking your driveway this morning, but-”
“Loitering is illegal.”
“Sir, I’m not loitering. I tried to leave, but-”
“I don’t care,” he snaps, talking over me for the second time. “Just move the car.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns on his heel and begins to walk away, leaving me staring after him in disbelief. I quickly snap myself out of it and hurry after him. Unfortunately, I actually do need his help.
“My car won’t start,” I blurt.
That gets his attention.
He freezes, then slowly turns back around to face me. Ignoring his look of pure exasperation, I take a few more hasty steps toward him. “I tried to get out of here last night, I swear I did, but it stalled out,” I say in a rush. “I need to call a tow service, but my phone died on me, too, and I can’t charge it because my car won’t start. So, Ireallydon’t mean to bother you, especially if you have no idea where Mel is, but I could really use some assistance.” He glowers at me, but I power through. “Any chance you could give a girl a hand and let me borrow your phone?”
I hold my breath in anticipation of his response, except he doesn’t respond. Instead, he studies me with that same irritated expression, like he’s expecting me to start pestering him for money or food or drugs at any moment.
“The sooner I call a tow truck, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair,” I remind him.
He inhales a deep breath through his nose, then looks down at his watch, debating something in his head. When he glances up, he pins me with a hard look.
“Wait here,” he snaps. Then he turns and walks back down the driveway, disappearing into the house. The second he’s gone, I duck my head to catch sight of my reflection in the side-view mirror. Sure enough, I look crazed, but luckily there are no traces of drool in sight.
Straightening, I lick my dry lips, my throat aching with thirst. I could really use a glass of water. I could really use a bathroom, too, but I have a feeling I’ll be pushing my luck to ask for such enormous inconveniences. Instead, I suck it up, cross one leg over the other, and wait for my reluctant savior to emerge.
When he finally returns, I screw on my smile and take the phone—which is a brand I don’t even recognize, sheathed in a sleek, black case—from his outstretched hand, careful to avoid accidentally brushing his skin.
“Thanks,” I say, noting that he’s already pulled up the information of a tow company. I call the number and press the phone to my ear, leaning my hip against the hood of the car. I try not to shoot conspicuous glances at Angry Dude, but it’s hard when he’s standing there all tense and suspicious, glaring at me like I might take off down the street at any moment with his cell.
