As I start trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of this, a flash of black catches my attention, and I see a truck barreling down the traffic-free road. It comes to an abrupt stop near where I was originally pulled over, and a man jumps out. My first thought is he’s a Good Samaritan here to help me. There’s also a chance he’s a serial killer coming to murder me, but he doesn’t seem like the murdering type. I don’t think murderers look like the Brawny Paper Towel guy. The thought makes me want to laugh again, but I tamper it down. I truly am losing my ever-loving mind.
The man walks toward me with fast, determined steps. I start to unbuckle, but he’s fully ignoring me. His eyes don’t so much as acknowledge me. Instead, he bypasses my car completely and practically sprints out of sight.
What the hell?
I get out, not really sure what my intent is, but my car is stuck and I need help. On shaky legs, I round the corner and that’s when I see it.
That little thump I felt was my car bumper colliding with one of the many rows in the vineyard. I managed to take out a pretty big chunk.
Shit.
On a positive note, my bumper looks unmarred.
The man stands and stares at the damage. His fists clench at his sides, and his mouth draws into a thin, narrow line. I take back what I said earlier. He looks absolutely murderous.
“Is this your doing?” the man demands.
I practically jump at the deep timbre of his voice. Something about his smooth, authoritative tone awakens a little flutter in my stomach. I’m definitely losing it.
“I’m so, so sorry. It was an accident,” I squeak. “I pulled over, because my GPS led me astray, and then the sand swooped my car, sending it flying away. I’ve been meaning to get my brakes looked at, but I’m so bad at car stuff. This wasn’t intentional, I swear.”
My rambling seems to irritate him even more.
He pulls out a radio, dismissing me. “Go for David.”
“David here. Over.” A man’s static voice comes through.
“Yeah, David, this is Ethan. Can you come out to quadrant sixteen? There’s been some damage”—his eyes cut to me— “due to anaccident. Over.”
“Ten-four.”
“Do you have insurance?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking to me and not the radio. “Yes?”
He nods and looks me up and down, seeming to realize for the first time that I’m an actual person and not some giant inconvenience. His gaze lands on every one of my flaws: my messy bun with greasy roots, my bare face in the middle of a period breakout, and my outfit, consisting of a threadbare crewneck sweatshirt and worn leggings. I’m dressed for comfort, not style, and I don’t appreciate the judgment.
His features tighten, the scrutiny so obvious I feel naked under his stare. “Well? Are you going to get it?”
Heat creeps up my neck and fans out across my cheeks. This guy is such an asshole. Whatever remained of the drunken-like hysteria I was experiencing mere moments ago dissipates, and I’m stone-cold sober.
I stomp around to the passenger side, making a show of my irritation, and dig through the glove box until I find my insurance card. It’s so unlike me to act this way, to not be overly polite, even if he is being rude. Apparently, a long car drive and a shit streak of bad luck have dimmed my usual sunny disposition.
I thrust the card out to him roughly.That’ll show him.
Standing this close to him, I realize I’m at a disadvantage. Not only is he angry with me, he’s also a very large man. Taller than me—which isn’t saying much—at least six foot three, maybe even more. He’s lean but solid looking. His well-defined biceps bulge beneath his flannel. His rich, brown beard, while full, is neatly trimmed and groomed. Despite his darkened, fuming eyes, the mossy green swimming in a mosaic of browns adds an unexpected softness. He’s handsome, unfortunately—all the assholes are. I take notice of it purely for the purpose of describing him to authorities, if he is, in fact, a crazed killer.
As more of a suit girl—Hillary calls my type “tech bro”—it seems I’ve neglected to appreciate what a pair of well-fitting Wranglers can do for a man. Strong, thick legs fill out his snug jeans, and as he turns to pull out his cell phone, I definitely don’t look at his butt. Nope, not at all.
He takes a few pictures of the card with his phone and then hands it back to me, the tips of his calloused fingers brushing against my skin. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine. Not sure where that came from. Clearly, I’m exhausted. Flutters and shivers within minutes of each other, truly flu-like symptoms.
“Why do you need my insurance?” I ask, unable to help the attitude pouring out of me. I resist the feminine urge to place both my hands on my waist and pop a hip.
His face scrunches as he looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Your negligent driving destroyed my property. We’re in the middle of harvest, and there’s no telling how much this will set us back or eat at potential profits.”
Is he serious right now? Yes, I took out a few grape plants, but it’s nothing in comparison to what remains.
“So you’re going after my insurance? Does this mean I get your insurance information too? Only seems fair, don’t you think?”
