It doesn’t start.
The engine doesn’t eventryto turn over.
“Pezzo di merda.”
I give the key another go, and once again am met with nothing but a soft clicking.
“Cazzo!”
I try again and again. And again. All with the same results.
What’s that Einstein quote again? Stupidity is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome? Something like that.
Guess that makes me stupid, because my car officially won’t start.
“Porca misera,” I cry as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, exhaustion making my limbs heavy.
Great. Just great. This is fabulous. And the absolute last thing I needed tonight.
Guess I’ll be catching an Uber home this evening.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I jolt, startled by the sound against my window. I peek over and see none other than Ryan Fletcher standing there with a smirk on his beautiful face.
No. Not beautiful face.
His face. His entirely normal, nothing special face.
I roll my eyes at him and go to roll down the window… except the car won’t start so it doesn’t have power. I let out a resigned groan, dropping my forehead to the steering wheel once more as he opens the unlocked door.
“Car trouble?” Amusement laces his voice. I roll my head so I can look at him without lifting it, puffing a quick breath to blow the bangs out of my eyes. He’s leaned his forearm on the top of the door and has one leg crossed over the other. He looks so aloof and unbothered. Meanwhile, I’m wanting to drive my car off the nearest bridge. Except it won’t start!
“What on earth would give you that impression?” I ask, the sarcasm heavy.
“I’m no mechanic, but I think your battery is dead,” he says, stating the obvious.
“You think?” I snark back. I can replay this conversation back later and feel guilty about it then, but for now I’m tired and borderline hangry. Fletcher just so happens to be in the line of fire.
“Want a jump? I think I’ve got some cables in my car,” he offers, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing in the direction to where I assume his car is parked. He probably drives some incredibly overpriced sports car that only loaded professional athletes and men having a mid-life crisis drive. I barely contain my scoff at the thought.
“Not sure it’ll do much good, but we can give it a shot, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, eyes narrowing as if he can dig into my thoughts and suss it out for himself. I drop my gaze from his and play with a loose thread on the leather steering wheel. “Isa, what do you mean itwon’t do any good? Has this happened before?”
I mumble out my reply which only causes him to brace one hand on the top of the door he was leaning against and the other on the roof so he can lower closer into my space. It’s overwhelming to have him this close and my senses are consumed by the scent of whatever soap he used to shower off after the game. It’s spicy and so very man.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” he says, his face entirely too intense that it catches me off guard.
I clear my throat nervously before I answer. “I said yes, it’s happened before, okay? Happy?” I grumble.
He shakes his head. “No, not happy. How many times?”
“Um, a few?” He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly sensing I’m not being entirely truthful. It could also be the way I gave myanswer in the form of a question. “God, fine Fletcher. Six. Six times.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Isa!” He pushes off the car and runs his hands through his dark hair in exasperation. “Something’s wrong if thiskeepshappening. You need a new car!”
“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. But unfortunately, not all of us have multi-million-dollar contracts to swing metal sticks at balls and run in a square.”
