“You’re lying. Your whole body just stiffened. If it’s about money, don’t worry. Your insurance will cover it. I’ll make sure the deductible isn’t an issue.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I... uh...”
“You don’t have insurance?” he asks, his voice hitting an angry note.
I give him a sheepish grin while shrugging. “Liability only. It’s fine. I’m working overtime at the museum. I’ll have the money in a couple of weeks to cover it.”
Maggie has already volunteered to pay the full amount of rent on the house and utilities just so that I can get my car fixed, but I can’t let her do that. I’m still paying off some of John’s credit cards that were in my name. It’ll take a while, but eventually I’ll get it all caught up.
“And you wrecked a Porsche? That’s not very smart,” he grumbles, leaning back while taking a deep breath.
“It was a bad day. A really bad day. It was... You’re right. It was stupid. But you pushed me. Why are you parking on our side of the street? Your side has plenty of room.”
He frowns as he takes another sip of his drink.
“Kittens,” he says randomly, and I give him what has to be an unbelievably confused stare.
“Kittens?” I ask, trying to look for a code to decipher. Nothing.
“Kittens—several that are just a few months old. They’re living in the storm drain of the gutter. They climb up in your engine, and when you start your car... Well, it’s not pleasant. Animal control is behind and they haven’t come out to remove them yet. All of my neighbors are getting as far away from that damn opening as possible.”
I bite back a grin. He doesn’t want to be a kitten killer. That’s what started all this.
“Aw,” I saw teasingly, enjoying the way he narrows his eyes at me.
“I’m allergic to cats. That’s the main reason,” he lies, and I work really hard not to smile mockingly. Okay. Maybe I don’t work at all.
“Stop smiling,” he grumbles, sipping his drink again.
“For a bad boy, you’re actually a pretty big softie.”
His lips c
url up in amusement as his eyebrows raise. “Bad boy? What makes you think I’m a bad boy?”
I squirm uncomfortably while absently stirring the straw in my drink.
“You have tattoos all over your upper body. Your nipple is pierced. So is your eyebrow. And you have a motorcycle.”
He lets go one of those throaty laughs that always makes me smile, and I just let the vibrations rattle through me.
“And that qualifies me for bad boy status?”
When he says it like that, it sounds pretty stupid. Instead of making myself look like a bigger idiot, I shift the subject.
“Why do you only have one nipple pierced?”
His grin slowly changes into one of more mockery. “Because I wasn’t bad enough to get the second one pierced,” he jokes, making me feel like a jackass.
Jerk.
“Really?” I ask, playing along.
“The shit hurt a lot worse than I thought it would,” he says while chuckling, still sounding as though he’s making fun of me.
From there, conversation just flows. I detail my very demanding yet low paying job, and he tells me all about his garage. His career is by far much more fascinating, and I actually enjoy listening to him speak so passionately about it.