Where did that shiny silver-blue Cadillac come from? This can’t be happening to me.

A tall dark-haired man is out of the Cadillac before I can take another breath. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouts, striding around to the front of his car to check out the damage my old Impala has caused to his brand new Caddy. From the stiff angry set of his shoulders, it isn’t good news.

I jump out too, ready to knock his head off. Who the hell does this guy think he is? I can do road rage too. I’m not having my head chewed off by any random idiot who can’t park. This is not my fault and I’m not going to be bullied into paying for any damages. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I shout hotly. “Maybe if you hadn’t come careening in behind me, this wouldn’t have happened! That was my parking space.”

He straightens and glares at me.

Bad driver but oh wow—drop dead handsome. Yeah, I’ve locked eyes with the most splendid man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And that includes guys inside magazines pages. I stop short and catch my breath. My heart is jumping. Oh God, those eyes. They’re the most beautiful shade of glorious azure, like the sky on a clear, autumn day. I can’t tear my gaze away from them. I could easily stare into them and forget about my interview, my car, my life. Except those beautiful eyes are filling with irritation.

“What are you talking about? I was halfway into the space when your piece of junk struck me,” he says curtly.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I drooling like a love-mad teenager over this rude brute? I shake myself free of the spell of his eyes, the chiseled perfection of his features and oh, yeah, the ridiculously fit body under his expensive suit and straighten my spine. This is a battle. “Didn’t you see me? There must have been only ten inches between me being all the way into that space when you hit me.”

His eyes flash with disbelief. “Ten inches? Are you blind? Look at the position of my car and yours.”

Ignoring his scowl, I lift my chin and walk around to the back of my car to inspect the damage for myself. When I do, I let out a laugh of sheer relief.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, following behind me.

I look up.

His face is turning dark with anger.

“No, no, not funny at all.” I struggle to keep myself under control. “I’m just relieved.”

“Relieved?” he bellows.

Gee. I’m batting a thousand with this guy. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like a lot of damage. Does it? I only see two scratches and a slight dent. Your headlight isn’t even broken.”

Those beautiful eyes narrow into slits. “Listen. Just because you drive a battered old piece of shit and think it’s real funny that you knocked some rust off it—”

“Excuse me?” Hot or not, nobody talks to me that way.

“—doesn’t mean I should dismiss the damage to my car,” he continues like I never spoke at all.

I’m not taking crap from some asswipe on the road. “Oh, stop being such a drama queen. This is hardly damage. I’ve seen worse done to a car with an out-of-control shopping cart. Consider yourself lucky you got off this easy and maybe, think it through the next time you decide to steal another driver’s parking space.”

“I didn’t steal your space. You tried to steal mine,” he growls.

“Really? What’s your definition of stealing, then? Because I was nearly parked when you hit me, jackass.”

“Oh, very classy.”

God, why couldn’t he be some ugly smooch, so I can really get mad? “Just because you drive a fancy car doesn’t mean you own the world.”

“I’m surprised they even allow that piece of junk you’re driving, on the road,” he says straightening the collar of his snowy white shirt.

“I can’t believe you said that,” I gasp. What a rude asshole.

“I’ve said worse,” he says dryly.

“We can’t all drive around in a Cadillac,” I fire back, hands on my hips. It’s not easy to get me worked up, but once I am? Forget about it. My Philly comes out, as Mom likes to tease. “Maybe if you’d get your nose out of the air, you’d be a much better driver.” I turn around to take a look at my car since I was too busy getting yelled at to examine my own damage. My tail light is busted. Terrific.

He snorts behind me. “How can you tell what damage happened today and what was already wrong with it?”

This guy is unbelievable. I whirl around. “You have to be the biggest douche I’ve ever met,” I snarl, totally losing control of myself. Maybe because I’m already having a crappy day or maybe because he’s right. I know my car is a piece of junk. Every time it starts, I consider myself lucky. And worse still, knowing he’s way out of my league. He would never give a poor girl like me a second look. People like him think they’re above everything and everybody.

“I don’t have time for this. It’s obvious you won’t be able to afford to pay for the damages to my car, so we’ll just agree to repair our own cars.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” I say proudly. “I’ll take some photographs and let the insurance company decide whose fault it is.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, but he takes his mobile phone out of his jacket and quickly takes some shots.

I run around to the driver’s seat and do the same.

“Are you finished?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say snapping the last photo from an angle that clearly shows that my car is more in the space than his.

“All right. Let’s get it over with. Show me your license and I’ll show you mine”

“Show me yours first?” I say not liking his tone as I try to ignore his incredibly blue eyes.

“Wow, what a bimbo,” he says reaching into the back pocket of his expensive Italian slacks.

“What did you just call me?” I ask, getting a whole lot madder.

“Here’s my license,” he says ignoring my question.

I snatch it from his fingers and glance down at it. “Oh, it says Trent. I expected it to say Rich Jerk,” I note as I glance up smiling sweetly.

I expect him to say something about my license not having Bimbo on it, but he doesn’t.

“Here, Dakota,” he says dismissively as he hands my license back.

“You’re not going to write down my information?” I ask.

“I’ve already memorized it, but I’m sure you’ll need a pen and paper.” He pulls a Montblanc pen from his shirt pocket and holds it out for me.

I want to slap the expensive pen out of his hand and go get my Bic pen out of the glove compartment, but I don’t. Hell, between lusting after him and establishing that it was his fault… I’d forgotten about my appointment.

“Would you please hurry? I’m late!” he says as I scribble his name and license number on the scrap of paper I found in my pocket.

“Yes, can’t let you be late, can we?” I mock, as I hand back his license, and whirl around to leave. I take two steps.

“My pen, please.”

Shit. I am such a fool. My whole body goes up in flames of embarrassment. I plaster a fixed smile on my face and turn back. “Oh, yes. Heaven forbid. I’m sure it cost more than I make in a month!”

He takes a sharp breath, like he’s ready to let loose with something really good—or, rather bad, but his eyes widen as he remembers something. “Shit. I was already running late and you’ve just made things worse.”

I check my phone. It’s now nine-twenty.

He gives me a dark look. “If I lose this opportunity because of you…”

My hands ball into fists. “Me? You lose it because of me?” I splutter. “This is all your fault.”

“Why do bimbos always look so damn hot when they’re annoyed?”

My eyes widen with shock. Is he flirting with me? I suddenly don’t know if I should be ecstatic, he called me damn hot or angry because he called me a bimbo again. I hold up my hand with my middle finger extended.

Trent laughs and shakes his head. “Have a nice day too, Dakota,” he says. He locks his car and starts walking away.

I watch him slack-jawed. He’s just going to leave his car halfway in MY parking space.

Oh, if he is not the most arrogant, self-satisfied, selfish, uncivilized jerk I have ever met in my life. But I can’t stand here cursing him. I’m already twenty-two minutes late for my appointment. I rush back to my Impala. I pull out and look for another parking space. Luckily, only a few yards away, a woman comes out of her space and I quickly dart in. I lock my car and race to the building.