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Part I
1
Has fate ever thrown an arrogant,self-important asshole into your life just so he can ruin your already crap day? Because today fate decided I should collide cars and lives with one.
After three hours driving non-stop from Bristol towards the seaside town Broadbeach, I’m in a foul mood. This trip would take half the time if every traffic cone in England wasn’t blocking the route, forcing all the cars into a ‘traditional English traffic jam’. Now I’m stuck behind the slowest tractor in the world, since I had the bright idea to leave the traffic jam and use quieter country roads to speed up the journey.
My parents dragged me to Broadbeach on summer holidays my whole childhood. The last time I visited as a whiny teenager, the quiet seaside town was the armpit of the universe and no longer the sandy playground by the beach I loved as a little kid. But there's no place I'd rather be now, than the small house on the edge of the dunes.
When I finally end this bloody journey.
Frustration mounts as the afternoon grows late, and skipping lunch to leave Bristol as quickly as possible has left me hangry. I took a wrong turn thanks to my stupid decision to take a short cut, and I’m lost on a narrow country lane looking for a familiar road sign.
So when a dog runs across the road in front of me and I hit the brakes, I'm not exactly calm about the car behind rear-ending mine. One screech of tyres plus one exchange of alarmed looks between Sky and dog equals one loud metal crunch and more crap to deal with.
I glance in the rear-view mirror. A dark-haired guy in sunglasses hastily drops his phone and starts gesticulating in a way that demonstrates he's as happy about the collision as I am.Like this is my fault?I throw open the door and climb out, slamming it behind me. Heading to the back of my small, silver car, I'm aware of his scrutiny as I inspect the damage. Great. There’s a broken light and a bloody huge dent.
I turn to his car. I know nothing about them but sleek, black some-kind-of-penis-extension prestige vehicles like this cost more to fix than my I-have-no-money-and-a-crap-job ten-year-old hatchback.
The guy remains in the car, so I stomp over and indicate he should lower his window. The tinted windows seem excessive in the English climate, but I guess this adds to the car and guy’s image. All I can see of him is the dark sunglasses and short brown hair, and a hand waving at me to stand back. I huff and back away.
Out of the car steps a guy with an attitude as big as the dent in my bumper. He doesn’t speak, but his body language indicates an apology isn’t coming anytime soon. He’s six feet plus of tightly drawn muscles and a hard set mouth, and I'm immediately drawn to the sleeve of colourful tattoos disappearing under his greying black T-shirt. Why do people cover themselves in so many tattoos? They're plain ugly when they merge into one canvas of indistinguishable colour.
I shift my gaze to his face. His sunglasses remain in place, and I can't see much beyond his sharp jawline and the fact he needs to shave. Is he trying to cultivate a sexy, edgy image to match his sexy, edgy car? The guy whips off his sunglasses revealing bright blue eyes circled by tired black marks. I figure he's in his twenties like me, but his exact age is difficult to tell behind the exhausted face.
Without a word, he stalks to the front of his car and rubs the dented paintwork, sucking air through his teeth. Flakes of silver paint from my car drop to the road. I take the opportunity to size him up. He's grungy in an attractive way—or the way attractive people can be as scruffy as hell and still look okay. He looks more than okay, and I'm momentarily distracted by how his faded blue jeans hug his ass but blink the image away.
"This accident is automatically your fault as you rear-ended me," I inform him.
"You stopped without any indication," he retorts, straightening and turning back to me. His accent is odd—a Welsh twang but as if he’s lived overseas too long and diluted the accent with American.
"A dog ran into the road in front of my car."
He looks into the road. "What dog?"
"The dog left the scene. I don't think he realised he needed to stay as a material witness." I narrow my eyes at the guy and he deliberately looks me up and down. I’m wearing a short pink, floral summer dress. Hardly sexy, but I feel exposed under his scrutiny. I cross my arms over my chest.
Scruffy-but-hot hesitates, tapping his fingers against his teeth. "I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm in a hurry. Forget the insurance—I’ll give you the money. How much do you need to fix your car?"
Do what?"I don't know."
Cocking his head, he studies the car. "Not much. This is an old model. Was the paintwork that bad before I hit you?"
Cheeky bastard. "I'm not taking your money. Repairs might cost more than you have. If you give me your name and number, we can sort the insurance out the proper way."
He laughs. "Very fucking clever. Do you think I would?"
I'm taken aback at his attitude and language, and his attractiveness fades. "Swapping details is a strange and ancient custom which occurs when dickheads on their phones rear-end the car in front."
For a moment, he looks as if I slapped him across the face, and he’s rendered speechless. If he can afford a car like this, I bet people in his life rarely call him a dickhead. At least not to his face anyway.
"I don't give people my personal details." As he speaks, he scrutinises my face and something in his ocean blue eyes prickles the back of my neck.
Oh, I see, turn on the smouldering so you’re too irresistible to argue with. Forget that, buddy—men aren’t my favourite species currently.
"What makes you so special?" I ask.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Nothing, what makesyouso special?"
He traps me in a well-practiced seductive gaze.Not going to work, my friend.“Do I need to call the police?"
