Page 8 of Fake Wife
“Damn,” I let out, my limbs shaking.
One second of taking my eyes off the road to plug in my dying phone and my day has just gotten worse than I can possibly imagine.
Heaving a deep breath that does nothing to calm the adrenaline coursing through me, I fling open my car door and stumble to the street. Behind and around me, people have stopped and are staring. Cellphones are out and car engines are idling, waiting to move around the accident I’ve caused.
All I can think is that I’ve just hit someone. A rich someone based on the shiny, sporty car and Mercedes emblem now cracked thanks to yours truly.
I rush to the vehicle in front of me, and as I reach it, the driver’s door flies open.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry. So very, very sorry,” I stammer as the man I’ve hit unfolds himself from his car, one hand on his forehead, rubbing back and forth as he groans. He’s wearing perfectly shined black dress shoes and a black suit that fits him beautifully. Sandy brown hair flops over his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and he drops his hand.
My heart plummets to my feet as he lifts his head, squinting at me.
I haven’t just hit a rich man.
I’ve crashed into Corbin Lane, playboy, richest son of a bitch in Portland.
Someone, please, kill me now.
“Fuck,” Corbin groans again. His fingers move to his temples and he rubs tiny circles. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing.” He squints at me and his hands stop moving at his temples. “I mean, not nothing. I hit you,” I wave my hand toward the back of his car. “Obviously. And like I said, I’m really sorry, but you pulled out so fast—”
Two thick brown brows slice upward on his forehead. “I pulled out too fast?”
“No.” I shake my head. Damn it! This is bad. Really bad. The man is worth gazillions. His gaze hits me, and in the sun, his eyes are so crystalline blue they steal my breath.
When I don’t answer, he steps toward me. His eyes narrow, head tilts. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” I step back, out of reach of his outstretched arm. Unfortunately, the heel of my sandal catches a small crack and I stumble backward. My arms flail, that awkward and embarrassing pinwheel motion, and just as my backside is about to become intimately acquainted with the street, I’m swept up in a strong muscled arm.
Corbin yanks me to his chest and my hands have nowhere to go except to cling to his arms.
And what nice arms they are. Focus! I shake the cobwebs from my head.
This can’t be happening. This simply isn’t happening. I am not being held by Corbin Lane, in the middle of a street in downtown Portland, with dozens of onlookers right after I’ve smashed the back of his Mercedes-Benz.
My life seriously, freaking sucks.
“I’m really sorry about your car,” I say, my breath now coming in short, harsh pants. It’s the adrenaline crash, not the mind-boggling spicy scent of his cologne that’s making me dizzy. “I’ll pay. I promise.”
With what money?
I suck my lip between my teeth and Corbin relaxes his hold on me, enough to escort me safely back to my Prius.
I reach into my car and dig through my wallet, pulling out my crumpled and hopefully not expired auto insurance card. I turn to hand it to him so we can finish this and I can get on with my disastrous day, when I find Corbin’s gaze fixed on the backseat of my car.
Heat flares on my cheeks and I shake the insurance card. “Mr. Lane? Here’s my insurance. Do you want to write it down or something?”
He turns to me, two thick eyebrows arching again. “You know who I am?”
“I’m pretty sure every woman under the age of sixty in Portland knows who you are.”
For a brief moment I see a flash of a smile and he points to my backseat. “Are you okay? Seems like you have your entire life packed in the back of your car.”
“That’s because it is,” I admit before I can filter myself. Not that I’m very good at it anyway, clearly. I force back more tears from the day, the morning, how much life currently sucks. “What can I say? It’s been a pretty bad day. I swear I have the money to fix your car. And insurance.”
