Shaken (Twisted Fox #2) - Charity Ferrell Page 0,1

in my way.”

“I planned to run in and out, too, but when I ran out, I had to deal with you.”

“Move it or get towed.” He impatiently waves his phone in the air. “I have shit to do.”

“You can’t tow my car. It’s not even legal.”

“Call it a citizen’s tow.”

“Call it you’re an asshole.”

The frustration on his face grows. “Move your car. Nothing gets towed. Easy fix.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Never said I was nice.”

“Fine, whatever.” I narrow my eyes while stalking toward him.

The faster I’m away from this asshole, the better. As I circle him, his slate-gray eyes meet mine, and I trip.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, pushing out my hands to save myself from face-planting. That save results in me losing my coffee.

“What the hell?”

I gulp and peek up at him while on my hands and knees. Coffee drips down his shirt, shaping into a forever stain. My cup is empty and upside down at his feet.

Scratch my earlier statement.

This is the embarrassment winner of my week.

Hell, the embarrassment winner of my year.

“I’m so sorry,” I rush out.

He doesn’t offer a helping hand as I lift myself and dust off my scraped-up knees.

When I go to pick up the cup, he retreats a step, worried I’ll bring him more damage, and stops me. “Just go.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, stressing the last word.

He pulls at his shirt, inspecting the stain, and shakes his head. “Make it up to me by getting in your car and leaving.”

My remorse spills into anger. “You know what? I take my apology back. I’m not sorry, you jerk.”

“Cool,” he deadpans, my insult bouncing off him like rubber. “Now, move.”

“Asshole.” I walk around him, sans tripping this time, and get into my car.

Curses fly from my mouth when I slam the door, crank up the radio, and flip him off as I pull out of my spot. I drive around the building and wait for him to leave before taking his old spot.

“Here we go. Coffee, round two,” I mutter.

My phone rings when I kill the ignition, and Lola’s name flashes across the screen over a selfie of us.

“You won’t believe this,” I say, answering my best friend’s call before retelling her the coffee nightmare.

“Swear to God, this stuff only happens to you.” She laughs. “And what a dick.”

“Tell me about it.” My head throbs from the lack of caffeine and the mess of today.

“You know, I have a hunch you’ll run into each other again.”

I snort. “Okay, Miss Cleo. That’d better not happen, or you’ll be bailing me out of jail for purposely spilling coffee on him next time.”

Queen of Intuition is Lola’s nickname. I swear, the girl was a fortune-teller in her past life.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand at her remark.

Do I want to see him again?

My heart races at the thought.

2

Archer

Two Weeks Later

“Tell the attorney to score a better deal,” I demand. “It’s a bullshit plea.”

“Archer.” My mother’s voice carries through my car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Katherine works for the finest firm in the state. Trust me, she’s doing her best.”

“She can do better.” She has to do better. “We’re paying her a shit-ton of money to get him out of this.”

“To get them out of this.”

I snarl and tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “No, to get him out. I don’t care about anyone else.”

At the same time as my gaze returns to the road, the driver in front of me slams on their brakes. I ram my foot onto my brake pedal, hard enough that I’m waiting for my foot to hit the concrete, but I’m too slow.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss when I jerk forward and rear-end the car. “Let me call you back.”

I end the call and glance in my rearview mirror. When I see the car behind me is pulled to the side of the road, damage-free, a rush of relief hits me. Moments later, they pull back onto the street and drive past me. One less collision for me to deal with.

I swerve to the side of the road, my jaw clenching, and shift my car into park. The car I hit does the same.

An accident isn’t what I need today.

Or any damn day.

I’m already dealing with enough wreckage.

I snatch my Italian leather wallet from the cupholder, stretch out of my car, and straighten myself. As much as I love my Aston Martin, they make them for tiny fuckers, not dudes hitting the six-six mark.

I glimpse at my newly purchased and shipped-from-England DBS Superleggera, and I grit