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.

Damn, I’m such an idiot.

As if anyone wants to eat pseudo-food that’s been whirling away on hot rollers for hours on end, getting stale and dry. The lazy fucks didn’t even come out to check on us after the accident, and we’ve been parked in their lot now for at least ten minutes. Still . . . “Blake. You can call me Blake.”

I see her mouth move, as though she’s silently saying my name. I want to taste it on her lips.

But then it’s like a pink haze clears and she robotically says, “I won’t be saying it at all. Call the county offices. They’ll handle the insurance. Goodbye, Mr. Hale.”

Our conversation clearly over, she goes to the back of her car and gets out a large black bag and what looks like a tackle box, obviously tools of her trade. A minute later, another dark sedan pulls up and she gets in, consciously avoiding my gaze as she pulls away from me.

I have the urge to chase after her, but that’s ridiculous. Even if I found her stunningly gorgeous and intriguing, with her running hot and then cold, I’m not superpowered.

Besides, thirty seconds after Zoey drives off, a county patrol car pulls up, and I’ve got other shit to worry about as a deputy gets out, leaning on the hood. “Well now . . . guess I should call for a couple o’ wreckers now, shouldn’t I?”

No shit, Sherlock.

Chapter 3

Blake

I watch the first wrecker’s tail lights disappear easily, the traffic having cleared. It’s not surprising. That’s what traffic does—backs up because of a slow-moving tractor or an accident, and then it disappears when there’s enough time and space for everyone to move.

Sucks that it cleared just in time to let Zoey drive away from me, though.

With a sigh, I get into the Uber I had to call and slowly pull out of the gas station too, unfortunately going the opposite direction as Zoey.

A few minutes later, we pull up to the address my sister, Amy, gave me. It’s nothing more than a corn field among other corn fields. I’d think she was setting me up for one of her pranks, except her car is sitting on the side of the road.

“You sure, dude?” my driver asks, looking around with concern.

“Yeah,” I tell him, tapping his tablet to confirm the charges. “Thanks.”

I get out and see my sister. For argument's sake, she drives a very sensible white Volvo. Not a pink Barbie car in sight.

But she’s already scowling. “You’re late, Frosted Blakes. And what’s with the fuckin’ Uber?”

Ugh, the nickname she gave me when we were kids.

It drives me crazy and there’s not a single other person I allow to call me that without dire consequences. Until Amy met and married Fernanda. Since Amy always calls me Frosted Blakes, Fernanda took up the habit, and I respect—and fear—her enough that I let it slide with her too.

“Yeah, had a bit of a holdup on the way here,” I reply evenly.

That stops her from putzing with the camera she’s tweaking even though there’s a cameraman standing right there who is eyeing Amy like she’s messing with his baby.

“What happened?”

She knows I have contingency plans for my emergency plans and always leave early in case I’m delayed. But even I couldn’t have foreseen Zoey Walker.

“Bit more than a fender bender,” I say carefully, knowing that it’s like ever-so-politely pulling the pin on a grenade. “Had to call a wrecker.”

“What?” she yells, smacking the cameraman for no good reason. He recoils, and I understand. My sister throws chops like a pro wrestler. “Are you okay?”