Drop Dead Gorgeous

My guts churn, and I recoil, desperate to help this woman. “Shit. Hang on, let me call you an ambulance, ma’am.” I fumble my phone, dropping it to the concrete. “Fuck!”

I curse at the same time the woman gasps in horror. “Oh, no! Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Thankfully, my phone’s not broken when I pick it up, but the woman’s brows are now knit together and her eyes are clear. She was fucking with me. No matter how beautiful, that’s not cool. “Seriously? I thought you’d lost your damn mind!”

She shrugs, her lips twitching at the corners. “That only works if you have one to begin with.”

“Huh?”

She’s got me spinning, and I haven’t decided if it’s fun like a tilt-a-whirl or awful like being strapped to a helicopter rotor while it revs up to chopping-off-your-head speed. The verdict is still out.

“Sorry, you looked so earnest,” she says finally, smiling a little more. “I couldn’t help it. Really, I’m okay. Just horrified and sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” I lift a brow, gifting her with a glare my sister calls The Mini Rock, and explain. “Well, you should apologize for the fake amnesia because we’re not living in a daytime soap opera and that was just mean. But the accident was just that . . . an accident. The important thing is, we’re okay. Can you get out so we can check the cars?” We do need to do that, but mostly, I want to see if she can stand. Despite her quick-thinking joke, I’m prepped, ready to catch her if she goes down, because I’m still not entirely sure she’s as okay as she says.

But she’s steady as a rock on her feet, to my relief.

Whoops . . . spoke too soon. She swoons, and I catch her in my arms. “Hey there,” I whisper, way too close to her now. But with her this close, I can see that her blue eyes are shot through with streaks of white, her long lashes blink slowly, and there’s a small freckle beneath her right eye, not ruining her perfect face but just highlighting her remarkable beauty.

And her lips . . . full, pink pillows that beg to be kissed. Or bitten, as she’s doing right now.

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes again. “My heart is still pumping fast, and I’m full of adrenaline from the fight or flight response. Made me a little lightheaded, but I’m good now.”

Despite her words, neither of us makes a move for a long second where I memorize what she feels like in my arms. Sweet curves and strong muscles press against me, and I’m tempted to sweep her into my arms, full princess-mode style. And that is so not my way, usually, but she’s activating some possessive protector gene in me.

One I would’ve said I don’t have. I’ve always been proud of living by my mind and not my testicles. But this woman . . .

Too soon, she pulls away, straightening her back and then her black polo shirt. The embroidery on the chest is gold, a star encircled with Williamson County.

Wait . . . gold star, Williamson County . . . sensible shirt and sensible sedan.

Did I get hit by a cop?

From somewhere in her car, a ding-ding-ding sounds, and I realize that it’s not the first time it’s happened while I was holding the woman in my arms. “Were you on your phone?”

The accusation is harsh, and she goes as hard as steel in an instant. “Of course not! That’s dangerous. I’m an excellent driver.”

“Really? The evidence to the contrary is quite apparent, right in front of us.” The damage my question caused is done. Way to go, Blake. Super smooth, asshole.

“Let me get my card and my insurance information for you. I have to get to work. DBs don’t wait.”

I have no idea who or what a DB is or why they don’t wait, but business mode I understand. I pull out my card and hand it to her as I take hers, reading it over.

Zoey Walker, Coroner, Williamson County.

Well, that answers that question. Not a cop, but close.

Dealing with the county for accident coverage shouldn’t be too difficult either, thank goodness. They’re not some low-budget, liability-only single office that doesn’t want to pay and tries to weasel out of every red penny.

Mostly, I just enjoy that I know her name now. She seems like a Zoey, beautiful and a bit mischievous.

I take pictures of her car and mine with my phone, and she follows suit after silencing the new round of ding-ding-dings. She pops the hood of her car so I can take a picture of the front-end damage, then gets on her phone, I guess to call for a ride.

“That everything, Mr. Hale?” she asks when she’s done. “I need to get going.”

That she used my name at least lets me know she read my business card too, but I hate that she’s trying to get away from me so quickly. I want to hold her again, maybe feed her lunch, even though the gas station is the only thing nearby. And only to make sure she’s okay, of course. Fine, and also to see if she’ll go soft for me again with a hot dog in front of her.