I didn’t plan to rear-end the hot guy’s car. I swear I didn’t.

I mean, I didn’t plan to rear-end anyone’s car, but if I had to choose someone, it’d be just about anyone but the guy who gets out of the SUV. I can already tell that the front end of my own already-crappy car is jacked up, though certainly not to the point that it isn’t roadworthy. That almost makes the whole thing worse: If I’d totaled the car, at least there’d be a small insurance check. Now, I’m just stuck driving a crumpled-up car to work until it eventually kicks the bucket.

“For fuck’s sake,” the guy says, staring at the back of his car. Eyes are on the two of us as people whip through the intersection, glowering at the fact that we’re slowing down traffic.

“At least no one is hurt,” I say, trying to sound kind instead of incredibly frustrated that I’ve been away for eleven minutes and my day already sucks.

At my words, the guy spins around and looks at me for the first time, and I see his eyes narrow a little. He sizes me up without hesitation, and I’m fairly certain his conclusion is that I’m a complete lunatic.

That assessment makes sense. I’m wearing a bathrobe as a top and pajama pants with a candy corn print. My hair is still in a messy bun on top of my head, and I’d be willing to bet there are pillow lines on my face. I’m wearing flip-flops even though we’re well into autumn. Like I said: I didn’t plan to rear-end anyone’s car today.

The hot guy, on the other hand, is dressed in a button-down shirt and jeans. The shirt isn’t tucked in, but he’s bought one of those ones that’s cut so it doesn’t need to be tucked in. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and his chest pushes out in a proud way, like a shield over his heart and lungs. His hair is short and buzz-cut, his brows dark and furrowed over sky-bright eyes.

I pull the robe over my chest a little tighter. Really, really wish I’d put on a bra before I raced out of the house.

“You were following too close,” he says firmly and more than a little condescendingly. “You were right on my ass. What did you think was going to happen?”

Being accused so plainly sends a ripple of irritation through me, and gives me the strength to tear my eyes away from the guy’s shoulder muscles— you can see the curvature of them straight through his shirt.

“I thought that you’d give me a little notice that you were stopping instead of slamming on your brakes,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “This is a major road here, you can’t just stop out of nowhere like that.”

“A major road?” he says with a lift in his voice that I don’t appreciate. Walton may be a tiny town, but it’s my tiny town, and I don’t like it when people like this show up and think they’re superior just because they’ve got roots somewhere with more people than cows. Plus, I suspect that because this guy is painfully hot, he’s used to being tiptoed around.

“Yeah, a major road,” I answer, trying to ignore the hotness as best I can. “And if I was following too close, it was only because you were creeping along in the left lane. Some of us have places to be, you know.”

“Places to be?” he asks.

“Are you just repeating what I say back to me?” I ask.

“No,” he says, and I loathe the look of amusement in his eyes. “I was just thinking that if you’ve got places to be, you probably should have gotten dressed.”

I fume, pressing my lips together and hating myself for wondering what he looks like sans shirt. “Look, do you want to call the police or not? If you want to file for insurance you’ll need an accident report. I don’t need one, so if you don’t either then I’m leaving.”

“Because you have places to be,” he says.

I take a breath and think on all the reasons I shouldn’t kick him right in the nuts— assault laws, the fact that I’ll probably lose a flip flop in the process, the fact that his nuts, if they’re anything like the rest of him, are probably made of steel. I say, “Yes, because I have places to be. I’m on my way to my mom’s and need to get there before the next eclipse.”

“Ah. That explains this. Sort of,” he says, motioning to my definitely not work-appropriate clothes.

“Yes,” I say tightly. “So again— accident report or not?”

He considers his, blue eyes flicking back to the cars, the bumpers still kissed together like they’re magnets. “It’s just a busted tail light. It’ll cost about a hundred bucks to buy a new one offline and install it. Do you have that? I assume that’s cheaper than your insurance deductible.”

“Well, yes, but…” I sputter a little. He’s right— it’s way cheaper than the deductible. But he slammed on his brakes, so why should I have to pay for his car and drive around my own busted up Camry? We’re both at fault, so we both have to deal with our own consequences, right? “You can’t just slam on your brakes like that. It’s not totally my fault.”

“There’s no law against hitting your brakes. There is one against following too closely.”

“There’s a law against insurance fraud.”

“Fraud?” he says, and my eyes narrow because he’s just repeating after me again. I can’t help but notice, though, that there’s more ice in his voice now. Being called a fraud, apparently, cuts him. I embrace the term.

“Yeah. Fraud. I’ve heard about it— people who encourage someone to follow close and then slam on the brakes just to get a quick settlement. How do I know that’s not what you were doing? Why the hell else would you slam on your brakes in the middle of the road like that?” I ask, crossing my arms.

He stares at me for a moment, then lifts his eyebrows. “To avoid hitting a dog. But I guess you’d have preferred I just plow through it?”

My lips part— that is not the response I was expecting. “A dog?”

“A dog.”

“Is…” Oh, damn it. I hear my voice softening. “Is it okay? Is it still—“ I look back toward the intersection. I feel my face flush a little. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. I just…”

“It’s fine,” he says, looking pleased with my change of tact.

“No, I shouldn’t have said that stuff about insurance fraud. I just— God,” I say, shaking my head and pushing stray hairs back behind my ears. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you. I might have been following too close or whatever, and I— I’m glad you didn’t hit the dog. I’m just trying to get to my mom’s house. She’s sick and she called and said she needs me.”

“Oh,” he says, and I can tell that this isn’t the response he was expecting. Something changes in his eyes, but it’s something very, very deep— a wisp of emotion, a wisp of something that’s not his cool, calculated calm.

I continue, “Yeah. I don’t have a hundred dollars on me, but I can write you a check.”

He hesitates, and I think, for a second, that he’s about to tell me not to worry about it. That hearing about my mom softened him in the same way that hearing about the dog softened me.

“There wasn’t a dog,” he says.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I shout— really shout, in that throat-tearing way. “Who the hell says that?”

“Is your mom really sick?”

“Of course! What kind of sick lunatic lies about that? Or almost hitting a dog? Are you deranged?” I shout, fully aware of the fact that I’m the one who looks like a lunatic at the moment, screaming at a well-dressed man in the road, wearing candy-corn pajamas. I notice that the wisp of emotion I saw in his eyes just a few moments earlier is gone.

“It doesn’t matter why I hit my brakes. If you’d been paying attention instead of riding my ass, you wouldn’t have hit me,” he snaps back. His voice someone carries just as much power as mine, even though he’s far from shouting. He’s got a low, rumbling growl of a voice, dangerous and angry but probably impossible to hear from a dozen feet away.

“You know what, I don’t have time for your bullshit,” I snarl, and dive back into my car. I write checks exactly once a year, when my car registration is due, but thankfully I always leave a checkbook in my glove compartment. I make it out with a purple pen, a hundred dollars, then wheel out of the car and shove it into his hands.

“Fill your own name in,” I say, trying not to notice the fact that when I got close enough to hand the check over, I could smell something spicy and sharp, like cut green apples, rising from his skin.

“Karli Ackerman,” he says, and I spin around, alarmed. I don’t know why, but I’m shocked to hear my name in his mouth, unhinged by the way he turns each letter over as he says the word aloud. I’m about to demand how he knows my name when I realize that of course he knows my name— he’s reading it off the check I just handed him.

I’m not at my sharpest in moments of fury. I hope he didn’t see the surprise on my face, as I turn back toward my car.

“My name’s Heath Farrow,” he calls after me. I don’t respond. I get in the car, slam the door, and try not to cringe when I hear something fall off the front end of the vehicle— parts of my headlights, I think, or maybe the grill. Whatever— it’s just a car. I’ve got to get to my mom’s house. I’ve got to worry about something way bigger than a front bumper. I’ve got to worry about something way more confusing than Heath There-Was-No-Dog.