Page 4 of The Illusion
Porsche Guy is tall and blond, with hair that catches the morning light like he’s in a goddamn shampoo commercial. Dark jeans. Crisp white button-down. Silver watch. The kind of watch you see in magazine ads featuring men who smoke cigars, own yachts, and say things like “my people will call your people” and mean just that.
I force myself out of the Jeep. “I am so sorry,” I say, walking toward him on legs that feel slightly unreliable. “I wasn’t paying attention, and when you stopped?—”
He looks up. Blue eyes. Damn. The kind of blue that makes you think of every clichéd thing people write song lyrics about. He really has it going on. “Fucking squirrel,” he says.
I cock my head in confusion. “What?”
“A squirrel darted in front of my car. I had to brake fast to avoid the bushy-tailed fucker.” He smiles, and it's devastating. “I didn’t realize there was someone behind me. I’m sorry.”
“You’re apologizing to me?” I point between us. “I hit you.”
“But I stopped pretty suddenly.” He crouches to inspect the damage. “Looks like we both got lucky.”
There’s a small scratch on his bumper. Barely visible. Nothing on mine. Still, it’s a Porsche. A scratch on a Porsche probably costs more than oral surgery. “I have insurance,”I say quickly. And after today, a premium that'll be in the stratosphere, I'm sure.
He stands, and suddenly he’s very close. Close enough that I catch his cologne. Vetiver and citrus and something warmer beneath it. “What’s your name?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Your name.” His smile widens. “I figure if you’re going to hit my car, I should at least know your name.”
My cheeks heat. “Julie. Julie Nelson.”
“Asher Stevens.” He holds out his hand.
I take it. His palm is warm, his grip firm without being aggressive. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re not hurt?”
“No. I’m fine. Just mortified.”
“Don’t be.” He’s still holding my hand. “Accidents happen.”
I pull my hand back. “Usually to people who wear seat belts before leaving the parking lot.”
His mouth curves. “Reckless.”
“I know. Lock me up.”
He laughs, and the sound does something dangerous to my common sense.
“I should probably let you get on with your day,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
Oh. Holy shit. Wow.
I look at him. The blue eyes and too-perfect not to be styled hair. The expensive watch and designer clothes. The Porsche with my Jeep’s calling card scratched on the bumper. He’s out of my league in every measurable way. But he’s looking at me like I’m fascinating. Like he isn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else.
“Where were you headed?” he asks.
“Barnes & Noble in Northgate Station.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He leans against his car like we’re old friends catching up instead of strangers exchanging insurance information after a minor collision. “What are you getting?”
“I don’t know yet. My plan is to browse and see what appeals.”
