Chapter Five

Isabelle

“What do you mean it's going to take four or five days? I don’t have that long!” I yelled.

I pounded my fists on the counter in the filthy mechanic shop, and I wasn't sure if I was going to fly into a rage or cry. There was my shitty luck in action again—doing nothing but screwing me every which way it could.

“Miss, I already told you, we don't carry BMW parts. We have to order them, and then there's the time it'll take to do the work. Have to rebuild the engine and all,” a twenty-something kid with an acne problem named Dave said to me.

“Can I speak to your manager?”

“I am the manager.”

I was taken aback. No way. There was no damn way he was the manager. He was too young. Not somebody who could make life or death decisions—like when my car was going to be ready. He was too young to know what the hell he was talking about. I needed some help here, and he wasn't giving it to me. I needed to speak to somebody who could. Preferably, somebody a little bit—older. Or perhaps, more experienced was the PC way of saying it.

“Then someone above you,” I seethed. “I need to talk to somebody who can help me.”

Jameson was standing nearby, and it was at that moment that he put a hand on my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. I turned to face him, fire in my eyes and a chip the size of Colorado on my shoulder. Who the hell was he to presume to put his hands on me? I apparently looked so fierce and angry that even he took a step back.

“What?” I hissed.

But instead of talking to me, he leaned over the counter and spoke in a low voice to Dave. The kid's eyes grew wide as he listened, but he didn't say anything. He simply nodded along, agreeing with whatever Jameson said, before speaking again.

“Listen, I know it sucks,” Dave said, licking his lips nervously, “but have to order the parts. I’ll put expedite on the order but that’s about it. Could take longer if the warehouse doesn't have everything in stock. I wish I could do something to help her. I really do. But I'm stuck here, man. I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. It's not like we have Beemer parts and engines just lying around, you know? Now if it was a pickup or a Harley, we’d be in business, know what I mean?”

“That's it?” Jameson asked. “Nothing else you can do to help the lady out?”

I saw Jameson slip a wad of cash over the counter. Dave's eyes looked like they were about to bug out of his head when he spotted it, but he shook his head, and I could see the regret.

“I'm telling you, there's nothing I can do. I swear it. If there was—well, do you think I'd be bullshitting you, Jameson? You, of all people?”

Jameson patted Dave on the back, which made the poor kid's eyes nearly pop right out of his head. The look of relief on his face was immediate, and judging by the look on his face, you would have thought Jameson had given him a death row pardon or something. I wondered what he’d meant by “Jameson of all people.”

“I'm sorry, Isabelle—” Jameson started.

Those three little words were enough to send me over the top. With my hands balled at my sides, feeling like I could—and really wanted to—punch something, I turned and walked out of the shop without saying another word. I just kept walking, biting my tongue to keep myself from screaming.

Jameson was right behind me, of course, calling my name and telling me to stop, but I was already crying. Again. For about the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours. I was surprised I had any tears left. There was no way in hell I was going to let him see me cry, though. It was bad enough I'd had to give in and accept his help. I didn't want his goddamn pity on top of it all.

Even though I tried, I couldn't walk fast enough to get away from him. He caught me before I'd even gotten out of the parking lot.

“Isabelle, wait!” he said, grabbing me by the shoulder.

As he forced me to turn and look at him, I jerked out of his grasp and snarled at him, “Let me go! Don't touch me! Don't you ever fucking put your hands on me again.”

I continued to fight back, smacking him across the face as I pulled away from him and took several steps away. As soon as I realized what I'd done, I felt terrible. I knew he hadn't been trying to hurt me—on some level, he'd only been trying to help me. But in a gut, animalistic way, all I could see was another man putting his hands on me. Another man getting ready to beat on me. And I wasn’t going to let that ever happen again.

“Oh God—I—I didn't mean to—” I stammered.

“It's fine,” he said, rubbing his cheek and surprising the hell out of me. “Not the first time a woman has slapped me, probably won't be the last. Hell, I probably deserved that for calling you sweetheart.”

“No, you didn't. I'm just—I—I'm just a little raw right now. I'm sorry, though. You didn't deserve it.”

I kept muttering to myself, ignoring Jameson's questions because I couldn't bring myself to answer them. I couldn't face myself. I felt completely powerless. But, instead of confronting my issue head on and coming clean to the one person who'd tried to help me—I freaked about the car.

“What type of town doesn't have BMW parts in stock? Seriously, I don't get it. What is this place?”

I paced around frantically, ignoring Jameson entirely as I freaked out. “So, now I have to stay here longer, in a disgusting, filthy motel in the middle of no—” Jameson grabbed my hand, pulling me into him. Before I could say another word, his lips were pressed to mine. I didn't fight back—at least, not at first. I was so surprised, so shocked that he'd be so bold, that I just stood there, letting him kiss me.

He tasted like cigarettes and coffee—not an entirely pleasant taste. But in a weird way, it was kind of sexy too. It was manly. Rugged. Masculine. As soon as it fully registered that not only was he kissing me—but I was kissing him back—I pulled away, pushing him hard in the chest with both hands as I reached back to slap him again.

“Sorry, I had to get you to calm down somehow,” he said, licking his lips with a satisfied smile.

“So you fucking kissed me?” I shouted.

“It worked, didn't it?” He grinned. “For a second, anyway.”

I opened my mouth to say something, and then snapped it closed again. I couldn't find the words for what I wanted to say. I knew there were a lot of expletives and insults mixed in, but I couldn't form a coherent enough thought to blurt anything out at all.

“Come on,” he said and motioned for me to follow him.

“Where are we going?”

“Lunch. It's on me,” he said. “I'm sure you're starving. And you need some food in your stomach to keep your strength up if you're gonna keep fighting everybody like that.”