Page 4 of Breaking Hollywood

God, he’s pretty.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he mutters.

And he’s an ass.

I stare back at his foot. “I don’t think that bone should be sticking up like that.” I point at it with my finger.

He bats my hand away. “Don’t touch it!”

“I wasn’t going to touch it! I’m not stupid.”

“You sure about that?”

“Hey!” I lean back, affronted. “That’s not nice! I know I ran over you with my car, but it was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I’ve never run over anyone with my car before. I have crashed into another car before, but I’d call it more of a bump, and it was the other driver’s fault, not mine. He’d pulled out in front of me. And there was this one time when I clipped this dude’s side mirror, and he was pissed, but if he’d parked his car better and not left it sticking out in the road, then I wouldn’t have hit it. It’s not my fault there are incompetent drivers out there.”

Gabriel is gaping at me.

“What?” I ask, a little self-conscious.

“Do you actually hear yourself when you’re talking?”

“Of course I do.” I frown. “I’m not deaf.”

“Good. Because, for a moment there, I was wondering if you were actually aware of the crap that comes out of your mouth.”

Ugh. Asshole.

He starts to get to his feet—well, foot. I stand and offer him a hand because I’m a nice person, unlike him, but he ignores my offer, choosing to struggle instead.

So, I watch as he gets up, balancing on one foot, his hand resting on the roof of my car for support.

He’s so tall. Six-four, according to his website. I’m only five-three. He’s a whole foot taller than me. Even with my heels on, I still have to crane my neck to look up at him.

His face is pinched in pain.

“We need to get you to a hospital. I think Presbyterian is closest.”

He lets out a hard laugh. “No, thanks.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Presbyterian?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Presbyterian. It’s you that’s the problem. No fucking way am I getting in a car with you.”

“Hey now! There’s no need for that. Seriously, Gabriel, you’re close to hurting my feelings.”

“Am I? Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He slaps his hand on his chest. “Because I would hate to hurt your feelings after you so kindly ran me over with your fucking golf cart of a car and broke my fucking foot!”

“It was an accident! And my car is not a golf cart!”

“It was not an accident! You didn’t see me because you were too busy bawling your eyes out to notice I was even there!”

Shit. He saw me crying.

I feel so embarrassed. It stains my cheeks.

“What happened? Did you have a fight with your boyfriend?” he prods sardonically.

“No,” I bite. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Anymore. “And, not that it’s any of your business, but I was just fired.”