Chapter 3
Isla
Iadjust the driver’s seat in 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 anything this fancy. 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.
A plunk snaps 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—which glints in the sunlight—extends down to his collarbone.
It’s the same color as the impressively sexy beard that covers the bottom 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?”
No Good morning. No Hello. 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.
“Do you have any idea how expensive this car is? How much it will cost to fix this?”
The man slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Motherfucker. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had the power to read minds, and he’s exploiting every last one of my weaknesses.
“You should have thought of that before you lit your money on fire for a status symbol. Or before you parked too close to the line.”
I take a step toward him. “You should have been more careful with how you handle this monstrosity, Taz.”
“Taz?”
“As in Tasmanian Devil. It leaves destruction in its wake.”
The man runs a hand through his gorgeous hair. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“That was exactly my reaction after I saw the damage you inflicted.” I hold out my hand toward him, palm up. “I’ll be taking your insurance information.”
The man scoffs.
“Uncle Wes,” the teenager whines, one hip popping to the side. “I’m going to be late.”
The current bane of my existence—Wes, apparently—lets out a deep sigh. “Fine. Give me a minute—”
“This is making me late, too. You’re headed into the coffee shop, right?” He glares at me, which I take to mean that I’m not wrong. “We can exchange information while we’re in line.”
I storm away, stomping toward the coffee shop without a glance behind me. No way in hell am I letting this menace get into line before me.
Thankfully, I built in a buffer, so I still have plenty of time before I need to meet Spencer. There is no room for error. No space to screw up. I must be flawless and unproblematic, and someone who can help Spencer enjoy the last few years of his skating career as a winner.
Behind me, Wes clears his throat, the sound deep and gravelly and landing in the pit of my gut. “Listen, I think—”
I look over my shoulder. “That we got off on the wrong foot? Damn straight.”
“Christ. Are you capable of keeping your mouth shut for five seconds?”
“Excuse me?” I say, turning fully around to face him.
His head falls back. “I didn’t mean—You’re…”
I bite the inside of my lip to force myself into silence, not because he demanded it, but because I want him to stick his foot so far down his throat that I can eviscerate him without being viewed as the emotional woman.
I want to verbally castrate him while these onlookers recognize it as justified.
“Look, I was going to say—” he starts again, but I cut him off.
“Oh, so we’re going to gloss right over you telling me to shut up?” When he starts talking again, I mutter, “Okay, yep, going to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I think we can handle this on our own without insurance,” he finishes.
I place a hand on my hip. “Because you don’t have insurance.”
A divot forms between his eyes. “Of course, I have insurance. I’m not an idiot.”
“No, just someone who apparently has no depth perception,” I reply, voice sugary sweet.
“Not that I need to explain this to you,” he goes on, his voice low but unmistakably strong. “But I’m not having the easiest time at the moment."
“Join the fucking club, dude.”
He flicks his hand in my direction. “So that explains your attitude then.”
“God forbid I show my emotions,” I snap. “I’m allowed to be pissed off that some stranger slammed his door into my brother’s car and then instead of trying to make it right, he tells me to stop talking.”
He looks stricken. “I shouldn’t have said that, but you just kept talking and I was—”
Fucking unbelievable.
I narrow my eyes. “Women have the right to do that, you know.”
“Of course they do.” His voice rises above his low growl before he pitches it lower again. There’s no point in trying to muffle our voices. Everyone is already straining to listen in. We’re those people—the ones giving everyone gossip to tell their coworkers.
He holds up his hands, a plea for a break.
“I didn’t notice, okay? I was in my head about—” He cuts himself off abruptly with a sharp shake of his head.
“I didn’t realize I hit your car, but now that I do, I want to make it right.
I’d rather pay you directly than deal with a bunch of bullshit, that’s all. ”
“Excuse me if I’d prefer to deal with an insurance company than you.”
His lips break into a grin before he pulls them into a line.
A distractingly tempting line that is anything but thin.
I bet this man can kiss. Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest at work.
A man like this, with a less-than-stellar personality, needs to rely on more physical attributes to hook women.
Hence the hair, and those forearms, and that intense gaze sending my stomach into a tizzy.
But I have had my fill of men like this—ones that don’t deserve an ounce of my admiration despite their good looks.
“Next,” the person behind the counter calls. Wes points behind me, indicating that it’s my turn.
After I place my order, I drift over to the side counter to wait for it. The niece comes my way, stopping beside me while her uncle places their order. She’s got a few inches of height on me and the stocky build of an athlete. Her pencil-thin brown hair flows halfway down her back in a ponytail.
“He’s going to pay for the damage,” she says, eyes on her phone.
“How do you know?”
She shrugs. “He’s grumpy, but my mom says he always does the right thing.”
Before I can reply, the bored voice of the kid behind the counter fills the room. “Is-la,” he shouts, mispronouncing my name, as he sets down the coffee cup with my plain black coffee. I eagerly take a sip, enjoying the scalding hot burn of the drink. Fucked up, I know.
“Your name is Is-la?” Wes’s niece asks.
“It’s pronounced Eye-la.”
She laughs. “Someone once called me ‘Thuh-ay’, but obviously my name is pronounced Thee-uh.”
I smile. “So you know my pain.”
Wes wanders over to us, and the apprehension stitched into his features calms my anger.
He’s not the only reason for my current mood.
At any moment, I could run into my father, who will express disappointment over my “lack of career”; my mother, who will shame me for divorcing my husband; or my ex, who will try to win me back for the millionth time because he can’t take no for an answer.
But that isn’t Wes’s problem, and I should stop taking my anxiety out on people who aren’t the cause of it.
“Can I have your number?” I ask once Wes reaches us. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Calm down, I’m not hitting on you. It’s so we can arrange payment.”
“What changed your mind?”
I glance over at Thea. “Someone told me I can trust you. Besides, I have somewhere to be. I’m ready when you are.”
He recites the number, and I punch it into my phone under the name “Parking lot terrorist.” Wes pulls his cell phone from his jeans pocket, expecting me to give him my number as well.
He’ll have mine soon enough when I text him the estimate, but that bone-deep stubbornness that has long been part of my personality won’t let me go easy on him.
I pop my phone into my clutch. “You’ll be hearing from me,” I say.
“I don’t doubt it,” he mutters, and I swear there’s a trace of amusement in his voice. No clue why. I will take Brooks’s car to the dealership to make sure the damage is repaired correctly, and that won’t be cheap.
“Nice to meet you, Thea.”
“Bye, Isla!” Thea calls as I leave.
At least my day can only go up from here.