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“Breakfast?” she repeated.

“Breakfast.”

“Oh, I don’t need any breakfast. I’m fine. And you must want to get home.”

“You going to be able to make all those cupcakes yourself?” he asked.

She stared down at the baking tin which she hadn’t even put in the oven yet. “Yes?”

Shoot. She hadn’t meant to make that sound like a question.

“You need help. And breakfast. I’ll be back. Lock this door behind me.” Then he paused at the front door. “And Isa?”

“Yes?”

“Put on some damn socks.”

She stared at the closed door for a long time. Had that really just happened? Last night . . . the accident, her car, Remy staying the night on her couch.

Leaning against the counter, she let out a deep breath.

This was nuts.

8

Remy studied Isa’s car. If she’d been driving faster . . . if she’d been driving a different car that couldn’t handle the conditions as well . . . yeah, he didn’t want to think about what could have happened.

Turning, he took in the tire marks on the road.

Who the fuck had been driving the other car? Had they deliberately pushed her off the road? Or had they just been a reckless idiot?

But to just drive off afterward without making sure that she was all right . . .

Fucking assholes.

He looked up as the tow truck pulled over and parked.

“Hey, I’m Evan,” the tow truck driver said as he climbed out of his vehicle. “This your car?”

“A friend’s,” he said shortly, not inviting small talk.

The man frowned. “Wait, this is Isa’s car, isn’t it?”

How the hell did he know that? He couldn’t possibly know every car around here.

“What’s it to you?” he asked.

Surprisingly, the other guy didn’t back off. “It’s my business because I know Isa. Is she all right? Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s baking cupcakes.”

“Oh, good. I love her cupcakes. She made me a batch after my Wilma died. She’s a good girl is Isa.” The look he sent Remy seemed to imply that he thought she was too good for him.

That was true.

He just didn’t care. Not anymore.

There was no going back. There might have been before that kiss . . . before she’d doctored his hand . . . before he’d found her on the side of the road.

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