Oh crap oh crap oh crap!
The car pulls out in front of me before I can stop.
Slamming my foot onto the brake does little to help and everything moves in slow motion. My car slams into the car in front of me, forcing it forward. My elbows lock, hands squeeze the steering wheel, but I still fly toward the steering wheel, stopping myself right before I hit it.
Metal crunches and my car jolts to a stop.
“Damn,” I let out, my limbs shaking.
One second of taking my eyes off the road to plug in my dying phone and my day has just gotten worse than I can possibly imagine.
Heaving a deep breath that does nothing to calm the adrenaline coursing through me, I fling open my car door and stumble to the street. Behind and around me, people have stopped and are staring. Cellphones are out and car engines are idling, waiting to move around the accident I’ve caused.
All I can think is that I’ve just hit someone. A rich someone based on the shiny, sporty car and Mercedes emblem now cracked thanks to yours truly.
I rush to the vehicle in front of me, and as I reach it, the driver’s door flies open.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry. So very, very sorry,” I stammer as the man I’ve hit unfolds himself from his car, one hand on his forehead, rubbing back and forth as he groans. He’s wearing perfectly shined black dress shoes and a black suit that fits him beautifully. Sandy brown hair flops over his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and he drops his hand.
My heart plummets to my feet as he lifts his head, squinting at me.
I haven’t just hit a rich man.
I’ve crashed into Corbin Lane, playboy, richest son of a bitch in Portland.
Someone, please, kill me now.
“Fuck,” Corbin groans again. His fingers move to his temples and he rubs tiny circles. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing.” He squints at me and his hands stop moving at his temples. “I mean, not nothing. I hit you,” I wave my hand toward the back of his car. “Obviously. And like I said, I’m really sorry, but you pulled out so fast—”
Two thick brown brows slice upward on his forehead. “I pulled out too fast?”
“No.” I shake my head. Damn it! This is bad. Really bad. The man is worth gazillions. His gaze hits me, and in the sun, his eyes are so crystalline blue they steal my breath.
When I don’t answer, he steps toward me. His eyes narrow, head tilts. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” I step back, out of reach of his outstretched arm. Unfortunately, the heel of my sandal catches a small crack and I stumble backward. My arms flail, that awkward and embarrassing pinwheel motion, and just as my backside is about to become intimately acquainted with the street, I’m swept up in a strong muscled arm.
Corbin yanks me to his chest and my hands have nowhere to go except to cling to his arms.
And what nice arms they are. Focus! I shake the cobwebs from my head.
This can’t be happening. This simply isn’t happening. I am not being held by Corbin Lane, in the middle of a street in downtown Portland, with dozens of onlookers right after I’ve smashed the back of his Mercedes-Benz.
My life seriously, freaking sucks.
“I’m really sorry about your car,” I say, my breath now coming in short, harsh pants. It’s the adrenaline crash, not the mind-boggling spicy scent of his cologne that’s making me dizzy. “I’ll pay. I promise.”
With what money?
I suck my lip between my teeth and Corbin relaxes his hold on me, enough to escort me safely back to my Prius.
I reach into my car and dig through my wallet, pulling out my crumpled and hopefully not expired auto insurance card. I turn to hand it to him so we can finish this and I can get on with my disastrous day, when I find Corbin’s gaze fixed on the backseat of my car.
Heat flares on my cheeks and I shake the insurance card. “Mr. Lane? Here’s my insurance. Do you want to write it down or something?”
He turns to me, two thick eyebrows arching again. “You know who I am?”
“I’m pretty sure every woman under the age of sixty in Portland knows who you are.”
For a brief moment I see a flash of a smile and he points to my backseat. “Are you okay? Seems like you have your entire life packed in the back of your car.”
“That’s because it is,” I admit before I can filter myself. Not that I’m very good at it anyway, clearly. I force back more tears from the day, the morning, how much life currently sucks. “What can I say? It’s been a pretty bad day. I swear I have the money to fix your car. And insurance.”
I wiggle the card again.
His gaze roams my face, my hair, and drops down the length of my body. It’s slow and not altogether unpleasant. I fight the urge to tremble under his inspection, his blue eyes so light they’re almost clear, until his eyes snap to mine.
Directing his hand in a waving motion behind me, he says, “We should get off the road. Let these people stop gawking and get back to their day. Follow me to that parking lot over there and we’ll deal with everything.”
He finally takes the card from my hand and glances at it.
“Teagan?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
He steps around me and hurries to his car. When his engine finally starts, he peers back at me through his rear window. Technically, I could take off. But he has my name and at least my last address. Not like I’m difficult for someone like him to track down.
With a trembling sigh, I climb into my car, thankful at least the accident didn’t destroy my car’s engine, and I pull into traffic, following him to the lot. He gets out of his Mercedes and meets me at my car door, holding out a hand to help me exit. I stare at it before taking it, letting him pull me to my feet and then closing the door behind me.
“So? Insurance?” I ask, but he shakes his head.
“Actually,” he says in that deep voice I haven’t heard much of but that does wicked things to my stomach in a way I very much like. “I have a proposition of sorts for you. Care to join me for something to eat?”
Did I hear what I just think I did? I couldn’t have. “Like what, a way to pay off the damage to your car?”
“No.” He grins down at me, tugging me toward an elegant French restaurant called Le Chat Noir. I’ve always wanted to go there but could never afford to. “I’ll take care of the car. I have something else for you in mind. But first, tell me this.”
“What?”
“How do you feel about cats?”
My eyes open wide and I glance from him to the restaurant. I have very little knowledge of French, but even I know the name is The Black Cat.
“You mean to eat?”
He throws his head back and laughs. And holy crap, it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, so much more than that, but the word handsome doesn’t come nearly close enough. With his laughter rumbling through me, I’m barely able to stand straight.
“No,” he says, wiping his smile off and shoving his hand into his pocket. “I mean for a pet.”
“Oh.” I scrunch my nose.
My nonanswer makes him grin again. Why this makes a man like him happy puzzles me. Plus, we should get back on topic.
I stop walking and he’s forced to do the same. “Are you okay? I mean, I didn’t hit you that hard, but you have a bruise already, and well, this is weird. You should be yelling at me or something. Right?”
“Do you want me to yell at you?”
“Well, I could live without it.”
“Perfect.” He’s still holding my hand and he tugs me forward. “Then join me inside. I’m not much of a yeller, and like I said, I have a better idea.”