Page 30 of Off the Wall

I’d better get out of the car before I’m incinerated. Grabbing my purse, I jump from the driver’s seat, straight into the plume of smoke. I don’t even have to pop the hood to know I won’t understand what’s happening under there. One thing I’m pretty sure of is that this is going to cost me. Big time. Like,you’ll-never-be-able-to-own-Serendipi-Teabig.

My ribs ache with frustration.

I let my roadside assistance membership expire last month because it was just an extra expense, so of course Dorothy chooses tonight to let me down. I mean, sure, she’s got about a gazillion miles on her, and I can’t remember the last time I had her oil changed. But she’s never given me any trouble before.

Could this day get any worse?

Hold on. Don’t answer that, Universe.

Tears sting at my eyes as I dig for my phone, weighing my limited options.

Hayden’s at the concert, and Keeley’s at a work dinner with Andrew. If I call my brother—even to ask his advice—he’ll want to swoop in to rescue me. Then I’ll be stuck waiting an hour and a half for him to drive here and lectureme about the importance of oil, at which point he’ll feel it’s necessary to mention—again—that I really should move closer to him and Becca. I can just picture him frowning at Dorothy’s smoking hood, and?—

Oh, no.

No, no, no, no, no.

Dr. Cash Briggs is roaring toward me like some kind of white knight in his enormous, gleaming man truck. He slows down, staring at me through the windshield, so I throw my hands up and wave at him frantically to move it along.

Just keep driving. Please keep driving.

“I’m fine!” I shout, even though—right now—I’m the furthest thing from fine. “Nothing to see here. I’ve got this!”

Cash makes it about twenty yards up the road before pulling over. Then he throws his truck into reverse, and backs up slowly until he’s directly in front of Dorothy. After hopping from his truck, he comes around the back in a pair of scrubs—naturally—and he pushes the long sleeves of the Henley he’s wearing underneath up to his elbows. This is another problem.

I’m a total sucker for forearms.

As he approaches me and Dorothy, her hood is still smoldering. Smoke leaks out along the edges. At least the engine hasn’t burst into flames. Yet.

“Rough night, huh?” He sounds so calm and in charge, I feel even more out of control than I already did.

“You could say that,” I admit over a garbled moan. “To be honest, the last couple of weeks have been a disaster.” I cut myself off, because I’m not about to complain about my money troubles to the effortlessly perfect Dr. Briggs.

“Yeah.” He runs a hand over his hair, and the muscles in his forearm flex. “You didn’t seem to be having a great time when I saw you at Vincenzo’s.”

Right. In light of my exploding car, that miserable memory had escaped me.

“And then in the laundry room,” he adds.

Ugh. I’d managed to temporarily forget that mortifying moment too. My cheeks flame up. “Sorry if I was rude to you.” I don’t bother to specify when said rudeness might have occurred. “The whole situation was just kind of awkward.”

This admission is true about both nights.

“I just want to be sure we haven’t gotten off on the wrong foot.” He tips his beautiful doctor head.

“There isn’t a wrong foot here to get on,” I rush to say. “No right foot either. We’re all good.”

“All right.” He glances at the smoldering car. “Then … why didn’t you want me to stop?”

“Because this isn’t your problem,” I blurt. “And I don’t want to be a bother.”

Also you’ve seen my thong. And you date women who could be models.

Plural.

“Well, I’m off work now,” he says. “Nothing else to do the rest of the night. I’d be happy to help you.”

My chest goes tight. I’ve spent the past year trying to prove I can manage my life on my own. And in this moment, I can’t even manage my car. Forget getting off on the right foot. I just want to stand on my own two feet.

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