Dr. Stud

“Excuse me?” I ask over the roof of the Ferrari as I get out. There’s somebody there, shuffling in the space between cars but too low to see.

There are LED lights in cans, one over each spot. It’s a nice detail, and safe too. It almost looks like a hotel bar in here. After half a second, a mahogany brunette head pops up, followed by one of those oval-shaped, pretty, brunette girl faces. Straight nose. High cheekbones. Big, brown eyes with long lashes.

“Excuse me?” she repeats, like I've offended her. Lots of sass in that voice. This is going to be good.

“I think you just hit my car.”

She squints at me like this is some kind of trick. Like I’m going to abduct her in the parking garage of my own company or something.

“I just dropped my keys,” she scowls, as though that says anything.

“You hit my car,” I repeat as I walk around the back to inspect the damage. Dammit, I just got it out of the shop. Again. I'm not in the mood to be replacing another body panel.

“I told you, I just dropped my keys,” she holds up her fingers and jingles the ring. “See?”

I don't answer, just scowl at the side of the sleek machine, kneeling to get a better look. I don't see any immediate damage, but sometimes you don't see that kind of thing right away. Not until you get it out in the sunlight, at least. Sometimes there’s a dent you don’t notice until you compare it with the other side. So I keep looking, measuring mentally.

And I hate it when people assume that just because I don't need the money that I don't mind when they mess up my shit. Kind of a pet peeve, I guess you could say. A quirk.

My fingers slide softly along the panel, feeling for divots. As I get close to the front of the passenger door, I notice that she's edging away, practically all the way to the concrete wall by now.

“You scared?” I ask her without looking up.

She doesn’t answer right away, but puts her feet shoulder width apart. I bet you a hundred thousand dollars she's got her arms crossed now, looking tough.

“Well?” I look up at her, just tipping my head while I'm down here practically laying on the ground. Close enough that I could reach out and stroke her ankle. Close enough that I could lean forward and tongue the circumference of her kneecap. I get a little whiff of something… is that perfume?

Oh, she's one of those girls who sprays a little Chanel up her twat. I like that.

I stand up slowly, rising parallel to her and watching her eyes track my height until I finally stand over her. Even in her stiletto heels, I still have a good five inches on her.

And I'm totally right, her arms are crossed. Somebody owes me a hundred thousand dollars.

“Well?” she asks defiantly, setting her jaw slightly to the side.

“You're not Hannah Bonham,” I remark.

She flinches a little bit back but holds together pretty well. Then she takes a step forward, forcing me back down the little lane between the two cars. If I wasn't a gentleman, I wouldn't have moved. I am totally a gentleman, no matter what anybody says.

“I'm just visiting,” she mutters as she keys open her door. She squints her eyes as she looks through her front window and sees Hannah’s plaque on the wall, then shifts her gaze to Emmet's plaque. Then, just like clockwork, she looks at me with that mixture of surprise, uncertainty, and fear that I love so much, whenever I meet a new employee.

“I really didn't hit your car,” she says in a much smaller voice.

“Maybe your… what is that? Hermès? Something pretending to be Hermès?”

She glances down at her bag. The tip of her nose goes adorably pink.

“I don’t think my fake bag hit your car either. I would have felt it.”

I should get mad, just to see how she reacts. See what she’s really made of. But apparently that’s the sort of thing that gets you labelled a douche in this town. Whatever.

I shrug, because really, do I care all that much? But it is fun to watch her squirm. “Probably wouldn't matter if you did.”

Her eyes shift back and forth uncertainly for a moment, as though figuring something out. She takes a deep breath and looks up at me, smiling pleasantly. Plainly curious, but suddenly slightly more confident.

“Bella Cage,” she nods, holding out her hand. I shake it, noting the strength of her fingers, the rustling warmth of her palm against mine. It feels surprisingly comfortable there, like it's a good fit. Like it's custom-made. Her skin is soft.

“I think I’ve heard your name before,” I say, watching her eyes dart back and forth between mine. She's taking deep, measured breaths. Her pulse is probably elevated. I bet that perfume between her legs is getting more intense.