“Swear to God, this stuff only happens to you.” She laughs. “And what a dick.”
“Tell me about it.” My head throbs from the lack of caffeine and the mess of today.
“You know, I have a hunch you’ll run into each other again.”
I snort. “Okay, Miss Cleo. That’d better not happen, or you’ll be bailing me out of jail for purposely spilling coffee on him next time.”
Queen of Intuition is Lola’s nickname. I swear, the girl was a fortune-teller in her past life.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand at her remark.
Do I want to see him again?
My heart races at the thought.
2
Archer
Two Weeks Later
“Tell the attorney to score a better deal,” I demand. “It’s a bullshit plea.”
“Archer.” My mother’s voice carries through my car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Katherine works for the finest firm in the state. Trust me, she’s doing her best.”
“She can do better.” She has to do better. “We’re paying her a shit-ton of money to get him out of this.”
“To get them out of this.”
I snarl and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “No, to get him out. I don’t care about anyone else.”
At the same time as my gaze returns to the road, the driver in front of me slams on their brakes. I ram my foot onto my brake pedal, hard enough that I’m waiting for my foot to hit the concrete, but I’m too slow.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss when I jerk forward and rear-end the car. “Let me call you back.”
I end the call and glance in my rearview mirror. When I see the car behind me is pulled to the side of the road, damage-free, a rush of relief hits me. Moments later, they pull back onto the street and drive past me. One less collision for me to deal with.
I swerve to the side of the road, my jaw clenching, and shift my car into park. The car I hit does the same.
An accident isn’t what I need today.
Or any damn day.
I’m already dealing with enough wreckage.
I snatch my Italian leather wallet from the cupholder, stretch out of my car, and straighten myself. As much as I love my Aston Martin, they make them for tiny fuckers, not dudes hitting the six-six mark.
I glimpse at my newly purchased and shipped-from-England DBS Superleggera, and I grit my teeth. It’ll cost a pretty penny to repair. My gaze flicks to the car I hit. There isn’t much damage. It’s at least a decade old and worth a few grand at most. I’ll throw cash at the problem for a simple fix.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hiss when the driver steps out of the car.
The sour look coming from her confirms she remembers me. I slip my hands into my pockets and stroll toward the brat who blocked me in at the coffee shop a few weeks ago. If this encounter is like our last, it won’t be as easy as I hoped. No doubt this chick is about to add more stress to my day.
“Just perfect,” she yells, throwing up her arms. “It’s the Prick Parker. Not only do you suck at parking but you’re also a terrible driver.”
She straightens her shoulders when I reach her. The woman might grate on my nerves, but she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Every physical feature of hers matches her spitfire personality. Random pieces of her caramel-colored hair are braided, tumbling across her sun-kissed shoulders, and she’s wearing short-shorts that show off her toned legs.
She has the face of trouble, of fun, of happiness.
She’s a shot of serotonin in a crop top.
The opposite of me.
The type of person I steer clear of.
While she’s a dose of pleasure, I’m a cocktail of misery.
My attention falls to her plump lips, and I lick my own, curious how she tastes.
Probably sweet.
Like a sugary doughnut or a juicy strawberry.
I shake my head to murder those thoughts. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to slam on your brakes out of nowhere?”
“Don’t you know there’s a three-second distance rule?” She smirks, pleased with her comeback.
That smart-ass mouth.
Had this been years ago, I would’ve loved it.
Would’ve wanted to fuck it.
But I’m not that man anymore.
“I didn’t expect you to stop for no damn reason.”
“There was a reason.”
“Which was?”
“A chipmunk ran in front of me.”
“A chipmunk?”
“Yes!” she shrieks. “A chipmunk! Furry little thing.” She lowers her hand until it’s nearly touching the ground. “About yea high.”
I stare at her, working my jaw.
“Oh!” she scoffs. “You’d rather me murder Alvin the Chipmunk? You truly are a heartless, shitty parker of a man.”
“No, I don’t want you to murder a damn whatever chipmunk.” I scrub a hand over my face as cars pass us, surveying my situation with their nosy eyes. “Look, I’m in a rush. There’s hardly any damage to your car—”
“Whoa.” She gestures to her bumper, now renovated with a minor dent and scratches. “That is more than hardly any damage.”
I rub my hands together. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll call it even.”
“Excuse me? What do you mean, call it even?”
“You ruined my shirt during our last little run-in, and I didn’t make you pay for it.” I shrug. “Tit for tat.”
Her jaw drops. “You think a ruined shirt is equivalent to car damage?”
“When the shirt most likely cost more than the car, yes.”
“Wow,” she calls out as if she were in front of an audience, and her mouth forms an O. “Alexa, show me the definition of a rich, arrogant prick.”
It was a low blow.
Cunning.
Bragging about my wealth isn’t a hobby of mine, but if it makes someone hate me, I’ll boast away. Throughout the years, I’ve learned the easiest approach for convincing people to leave you alone is for them to dread your presence. No one wants to hang out with the brooding bastard.
She holds her chin high, awaiting my next move, for me to solve the problem for us. I have no issues with paying for the damages. Hell, I’ll buy her a new car if she wants. The issue is compensating her while also maintaining a low profile.
“How about this?” I say, and her gaze meets mine in expectation. “Let’s exchange information and not worry about a police report.”
Another police report with my family’s name added to the stack is the last thing we need.
She skeptically stares at me, and her words come out slow. “You’re admitting it’s your fault, correct?”
A rumble shoots through my skull. “Sure, it can be my fault.”
“But it was your fault.”
“That’s what I said, sure.”
“Sure isn’t you accepting responsibility.”
“Jesus, fuck.” I rub the back of my starting-to-sweat neck. “It was my fault. You happy? You want me to get it tattooed on me?”
“That’d actually be kind of hot.” She smiles in amusement. “Will you put my name next to it … or possibly my face? I once dated this frat boy—” She pauses, holding up a finger. “Correction: not dated. We talked, went to a few parties together, you know—”