Shaken (Twisted Fox #2) - Charity Ferrell Page 0,2

my teeth. It’ll cost a pretty penny to repair. My gaze flicks to the car I hit. There isn’t much damage. It’s at least a decade old and worth a few grand at most. I’ll throw cash at the problem for a simple fix.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hiss when the driver steps out of the car.

The sour look coming from her confirms she remembers me. I slip my hands into my pockets and stroll toward the brat who blocked me in at the coffee shop a few weeks ago. If this encounter is like our last, it won’t be as easy as I hoped. No doubt this chick is about to add more stress to my day.

“Just perfect,” she yells, throwing up her arms. “It’s the Prick Parker. Not only do you suck at parking but you’re also a terrible driver.”

She straightens her shoulders when I reach her. The woman might grate on my nerves, but she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Every physical feature of hers matches her spitfire personality. Random pieces of her caramel-colored hair are braided, tumbling across her sun-kissed shoulders, and she’s wearing short-shorts that show off her toned legs.

She has the face of trouble, of fun, of happiness.

She’s a shot of serotonin in a crop top.

The opposite of me.

The type of person I steer clear of.

While she’s a dose of pleasure, I’m a cocktail of misery.

My attention falls to her plump lips, and I lick my own, curious how she tastes.

Probably sweet.

Like a sugary doughnut or a juicy strawberry.

I shake my head to murder those thoughts. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to slam on your brakes out of nowhere?”

“Don’t you know there’s a three-second distance rule?” She smirks, pleased with her comeback.

That smart-ass mouth.

Had this been years ago, I would’ve loved it.

Would’ve wanted to fuck it.

But I’m not that man anymore.

“I didn’t expect you to stop for no damn reason.”

“There was a reason.”

“Which was?”

“A chipmunk ran in front of me.”

“A chipmunk?”

“Yes!” she shrieks. “A chipmunk! Furry little thing.” She lowers her hand until it’s nearly touching the ground. “About yea high.”

I stare at her, working my jaw.

“Oh!” she scoffs. “You’d rather me murder Alvin the Chipmunk? You truly are a heartless, shitty parker of a man.”

“No, I don’t want you to murder a damn whatever chipmunk.” I scrub a hand over my face as cars pass us, surveying my situation with their nosy eyes. “Look, I’m in a rush. There’s hardly any damage to your car—”

“Whoa.” She gestures to her bumper, now renovated with a minor dent and scratches. “That is more than hardly any damage.”

I rub my hands together. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll call it even.”

“Excuse me? What do you mean, call it even?”

“You ruined my shirt during our last little run-in, and I didn’t make you pay for it.” I shrug. “Tit for tat.”

Her jaw drops. “You think a ruined shirt is equivalent to car damage?”

“When the shirt most likely cost more than the car, yes.”

“Wow,” she calls out as if she were in front of an audience, and her mouth forms an O. “Alexa, show me the definition of a rich, arrogant prick.”

It was a low blow.

Cunning.

Bragging about my wealth isn’t a hobby of mine, but if it makes someone hate me, I’ll boast away. Throughout the years, I’ve learned the easiest approach for convincing people to leave you alone is for them to dread your presence. No one wants to hang out with the brooding bastard.

She holds her chin high, awaiting my next move, for me to solve the problem for us. I have no issues with paying for the damages. Hell, I’ll buy her a new car if she wants. The issue is compensating her while also maintaining a low profile.

“How about this?” I say, and her gaze meets mine in expectation. “Let’s exchange information and not worry about a police report.”

Another police report with my family’s name added to the stack is the last thing we need.

She skeptically stares at me, and her words come out slow. “You’re admitting it’s your fault, correct?”

A rumble shoots through my skull. “Sure, it can be my fault.”

“But it was your fault.”

“That’s what I said, sure.”

“Sure isn’t you accepting responsibility.”

“Jesus, fuck.” I rub the back of my starting-to-sweat neck. “It was my fault. You happy? You want me to get it tattooed on me?”

“That’d actually be kind of hot.” She smiles in amusement. “Will you put my name next to it … or possibly my face? I once dated this frat