"Scatter my ashes in the sea. And no funeral. My cheap ass can't afford a funeral."
"Amara?" Gabrielle asks, voice groggy. Nine in the morning is pushing it for her. "What did you do this time?"
A hundred eyes watch my progress as I pace back and forth along the sidewalk, dodging patches of shattered glass and pointedly ignoring the hunk of junk that is—was—my car.
Years. I spent years saving for that piece of crap back in highschool. And now she's as good as dead. "I'm in a bit of a jam," I say at last. The understatement of the year.
I glance across the intersection, at the flash of red lights and the foreign car wrapped around a telephone pole. It's not that bad, I tell myself, searching frantically for a scrap of silver lining. Fixable. Totally fixable.
As if to spite me, the engine erupts in a burst of angry flames. I grimace.
"Was that an explosion?" Gabby demands. "Why do I hear sirens?"
I scramble for a good answer. The owner of the burning car is staring at the flames, expressionless. I flinch when our eyes meet and hide my face behind a curtain of bubblegum pink hair, mortified.
"Did I mention I was in a bit of a jam?" I mumble.
"Amara—"
"Gabby." Blue lights glimmer in the distance. Oh, fantastic. The blue coats are coming, the blue coats are coming. "Please. No questions asked?"
A long, suffering sigh. "You owe me."
"Always and forever."
"You keep saying that," Gabby says, irate. The sound of a slamming drawer makes me grin.
"I keep meaning it, too." I wedge my heel between a crack in the sidewalk, watching as a police cruiser breaks away from traffic to park in the emergency lane—the same emergency lane the hood of my car is currently occupying. The rest of the fleet converges on the flaming vehicle my old clunker destroyed, effectively dispersing the gathered crowd.
Please don't have a concussion, I pray to the universe as emergency responders approach the other driver. Please, please don't have a concussion.
"Gotta go," I tell Gabby, rattling off an address and thanking her repeatedly before hanging up. And just in time, too. I smile as a pretty technician with an enticing pout and hypnotizing eyes saunters over to my side of the street.
Hello, gorgeous.
I proceed to make a complete fool of myself for the second time that morning, stammering responses to her list of well-rehearsed questions. No, I'm not experiencing any pain (lie). No, I don't want a ride to the nearest hospital (also a lie, especially if it means getting a chance to flirt with her for an extra fifteen minutes). But not even her sultry smile can distract from the fact that a ride in the ambulance will cost an arm and a leg.
My arm. And my leg.
I can't afford a hospital bill. I can barely afford rent. Not that the technician needs to know that.
It's hard to have game when you're ass-broke.
"If you change your mind..." She picks up her field kit, eyeing me uncertainty.
"If I change my mind..." I lean forward. "Maybe I can give you a call?"
She pretends to consider the offer, eyeing me shamelessly before saving her number in my phone with a shrug. I watch her walk back to the ambulance with a triumphant grin on my face. A grin that quickly fades at the prospect of actually taking her on a date.
Without a fucking car.
I'm working through the logistics of said hypothetical date when an officer approaches, looking rather unimpressed by the fireball across the street. I give him a hesitant smile.
A smile he doesn't return. He pulls out a notepad and pen from one of his fifty-nine zillion pockets. "Name, please?"
I cross my arms. Already defensive. "Amara Rossi."
"Identification and registration, please?"
I step around him and rip open the driver door, ignoring her lovely little squeal of protest. Lingering a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, I make a good show of searching for my papers, rifling through the glove compartment with my ass on full display, courtesy of the figure-hugging lavender number Gabby gifted me last year.
"Found it!" I announce, slamming the door. "Here. License and registration."
He swipes the documents from my waiting fingers without so much as a nod of thanks. I glare at his back as he retreats to his cruiser to run my identification through the system.
"Sourpuss," I grumble, running my hands along the curve of my lower back. "I know my ass looks good in this."
"It does indeed."
I turn around, choking on a disbelieving laugh. "Excuse me?"
The laugh dies on my lips. You.
It's him—the owner of the car I just destroyed. I tell myself that this is a good thing. Good, because he isn't in an ambulance. Good, because he's in one piece.
Nope. Bad. The pessimistic voice in my head won't shut up. This is bad, bad, bad. What does he want? And more importantly, why is he complimenting your ass?
"Apologies. I don't have much of a filter." He doesn't look very apologetic.
I wish I had something clever to say, but I'm stunned into silence. Stunned, because he's quite possibly the most gorgeous man I've ever laid eyes on. And this is Los Angeles. Everyone is gorgeous.
His dark eyes trail down the length of my dress. "Miss...?"
"Um," I say, rather intelligently. I tear my attention away from the diamond stud glittering in his right ear—the diamond stud that probably costs more than my entire studio apartment—and clasp my hands behind my back. They have a tendency to misbehave around men like this. "Amara. Amara Rossi."
The corner of his mouth lifts in a breathtaking smile. "Miss Rossi—"
"Amara," I correct. Old habits. I mentally kick myself.
"Amara." The way my name rolls off his tongue should be considered public indecency. "I—"
"Excuse me."
I sigh as the officer from before barrels into view, interrupting what was, up until this very moment, the most scintillating conversation of my life. "Officer?"
"I'd like to ask you a few questions."
And I would like you to pass away. Immediately.
The beautiful man tosses me a quick wink, as if we're sharing some sort of inside joke, and then excuses himself with a low murmur. I watch him go, fascinated. He walks with the confidence of someone who's gotten everything he wanted out of life. And then some.
"Miss Rossi?"
"Amara." A wave of bitter reality hits me, dragging me back under its suffocating tide.
Officer Killjoy cocks a bushy eyebrow. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
I sigh again and relive the accident, feeling moronic. The light was red. And then it was green. I swear it was green...
Apparently, the light was not green. A police report is going to be filed. Not optimal. I stare at the grey clouds overhead, blocking the worst of the summer sun, and try to imagine that my life is not a total disaster.
Finally, the officer pockets his notepad. "Do you have any insurance on you?"
I stall for time. "Oh. Insurance?"
"Yes. Insurance."
"Ah..." I unclasp my hands and made a few vague gestures. "Well. Strictly speaking...no?"
"You don't have it on you?"
I suck my tongue between my teeth. "More like...I don't have insurance. Point blank."
And there it is. The nail in the coffin. I stand in stoic silence as the officer explains what happens next. But I already know the drill. This blip on my record is going to cost me—big time.
He leaves me there on the sidewalk, heart filled with dread as the tow truck arrives to peel the remnants of my car off the street. I wince at the sound of screaming metal.
Maybe I can salvage something, I think, desperate. A fool's hope. I'm better off saving up for a new ride. The old girl just isn't worth it.
My heart clenches at the thought.
"Amara."
I close my eyes. My name on his lips shouldn't be so...invigorating. "Sorry." I face the enigmatic stranger, running a critical eye over his sculpted black curls and designer suit, trying to find a flaw. If he has one, I can't see it. "I didn't catch your name."
"Nicholai." His eyes are unreadable. "What is it that you do?"
His words are punctuated with a slight accent; the remnants of a childhood spent in Moscow, maybe. Not that I was ever a geography wiz.
I fiddle with the ring on my middle finger—some household gemstone that's supposed to bring good luck. Laugh with me. "Uh. What?"
"Your..." He waves a hand, looking for the right word. "Occupation?"
I nod in understanding. "I'm a bartender."
"A bartender," he repeats flatly. "With no car insurance."
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. A smile that I very much want to rip off his face, beautiful or no. I've seen that look before at the bar, plastered on the mugs of men who think they have better sense than the pretty young thing serving up their cocktails.
This time, I shove my hands behind my back as a precautionary measure. I've already destroyed the guy's car. I'd probably be in deep shit if I broke that perfect nose of his. "You have a bad habit of eavesdropping," I force out.
"I apologize." The words are void of any real remorse. He checks the time on his watch. Clearly, he has somewhere to be. "Let's cut to the chase. Can you cover the cost of your..." His eyes flash to the tow truck pulling away from the curb. "Vehicle?"
I laugh, unamused. "You're a bold one, aren't you?"
"I'll take that as a no."
I open my mouth to say actually, you pompous asshole, you're wrong—just to watch him squirm. But nothing comes out. Not even a squeak.
His smirk widens, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. "That's definitely a no." He steps forward and I lean away, surprised by his height. "So. You don't have car insurance. Technically, I could sue. You ran into me, after all."
I think my heart stops. That, or I'm being dramatic.
"But I have no use for your money," he continues. The words are a slap in the face. "A lawsuit would be a waste of my time. And my time is valuable."
I hate him, I conclude. I hate him I hate him I hate him—
"You caught me on a good day." He grins. Damn him and that damn dimple. "I'm feeling charitable."
"Lucky me," I say with zero enthusiasm.
He takes another step closer. He's close enough now that the smell of his aftershave washes over me. Intoxicating. "Lucky you," he agrees, and the words are low and alluring and far too lovely for such an arrogant, distasteful creature. "I think we can come to an agreement, if you would be so inclined."