slow motion started up again and he watched in horror as the Jetta smashed into the truck again, this time wedging the back end even deeper into the front of the old Chevy.
Cole rushed out to the curb.
“Stop!” He shouted at the driver and pounded on the trunk of the car. The brake lights flickered as the car stopped moving.
“Are you blind?” He shouted again.
Seconds later, the driver’s side door opened, and Cole waited to see the face of the person who shouldn’t have gotten out of the DMV with a license. A wide-eyed woman whose cheeks were stained with tears emerged from the car.
“I am so sorry,” she said, clearly fighting to regain her composure. “I am so, so sorry.”
He watched as she wiped her face dry with the sleeves of her thin black sweater. The woman’s dark hair was pulled up into a high bun—and not the messy kind of bun so many of his students sported every day. This bun was perfect, tight, not a hair out of place.
Her face, with nearly translucent pale skin, was accented by the slightest bit of color on her lips and cheeks, though the pink seemed to be increasing the longer she stood there, undoubtedly embarrassed.
The tears softened him slightly, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d plowed into his pride and joy. Twice.
“Is this your truck?” She closed the door of the Jetta and rushed around the opposite side of the car.
“Just give me your insurance information,” Cole said sharply.
“Um, it’s a rental,” she said. “But I can pay for your repairs.”
He glared at her. Where had he seen her before?
“Obviously I’m at fault here.” She looked at the kissing cars and sighed. “What a mess.” Then back at him. “I don’t drive very often.”
“Really,” he said dryly.
Under different circumstances—namely, if Gemma hadn’t just returned to town, dredging up a world of hurts he’d yet to sort through or deal with—this whole mess might’ve played out another way. He might’ve laughed it off, told this beautiful stranger he’d forgive the accident if she let him take her to dinner. He might even find a way to be charming—he’d been charming before.
But the circumstances weren’t different. He was moody and angry and she’d busted up the truck he’d been restoring for years.
“I live in the city, and I walk a lot.” She ran a hand over her hair. “Well, I did. I did live in the city. Now, I guess I live here since I recently quit my job and everything.” Her laugh seemed nervous. She met his eyes. “Sorry. I talk when I get nervous,” then under her breath: “Marcia says it’s a terrible habit.”
“Great, whatever,” he said, inwardly grimacing at his own tone. “Can I just get your information so I can go?”
Her one raised eyebrow told him he was being a jerk. What else was new?
She drew in a slow breath, staring at him, then exhaled, looking slightly perturbed. As if she had the right.
“You’re—” Her gaze lingered.
“I’m . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Let me see if I have something to write on.” She walked back to the car and pulled a giant bag out of the front seat. She started taking its contents out and putting them on the hood of the car.
He tried not to pay attention as she unloaded deodorant, two different tubes of lotion, hair ties, what appeared to be a scarf, a pair of socks, a wallet, and not a single piece of scratch paper onto the Jetta.
She reached back into the bag and pulled out a Sharpie. “Here!”
He frowned.
She walked back toward him with seemingly no awareness for personal space, then scribbled on the outside of his food bag. She leaned in so close, he could smell her shampoo.
It smelled good.
“That’s my name and number,” she said.
He glanced down at the bag. She’d written Charlotte Page in bold, black letters, along with her ten digits. He looked at her. Why was that name familiar?
Charlotte. It suited her. It had a sort of old-world elegance about it, and so did she.
“I guess just call me when you figure out how much it’s going to cost to fix this mess.” She looked back at the cars and her face fell. “I’m honestly not sure how to get my car out now.”
Her brow furrowed, and Cole studied her profile. He knew it was old-fashioned, but he’d been taught to help women out of situations like this—Charlotte Page didn’t likely need a knight