Beautiful Distraction(2)

Another entitled jerk who thinks he owns the world.

The guy honks again.

“Asshole,” I half-shout.

“Excuse me?” Carol says.

“Not you. I’m talking to the guy behind me.” I groan and glance in the rear-view mirror. “If TB arrives before me, tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I have every intention of working through the night.”

Which I usually do anyway. Coffee’s my best friend. Sleep’s the enemy. If I could live off one and get rid of the other, TB would probably hug me.

“Try to get here ASAP.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up and throw my phone onto the passenger seat, my glance shooting back to the red car. As I try to move forward, my engine dies.

Another impatient honk—drawn out and annoying the living hell out of me.

Seriously?

Arrogant bastard. Can’t he wait for two frigging seconds?

What is it with people and Club 69? Just the mere possibility of seeing the it-band Mile High greeting the crowd has everyone, including my best friend Mandy, out of their minds.

Right then he holds his hand out of the window and waves at me, motioning for me to move ahead.

“Thanks, jerk!” I gesture at him through the open window and then press hard on the gas at the same moment the red Lamborghini moves forward, whipping around me.

The crash is inevitable, the sound of scratching metal making my heart drop into my lap.

Fucking hell!

Why would he give me a heads up to move and then do the same?

And who the fuck drives like a maniac, heedless of the usual traffic around Club 69, or the fact that it’s Friday night and the streets are bound to be busy?

My blood’s boiling in my veins, the thick liquid thrumming in my ears.

I kill the engine and jump out of the car, leaving the door ajar.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” My voice is a choked mixture of rage and exasperation.

Maybe the owner of this quarter-million-dollar chick magnet has the fluffy bank account to have their car repaired, but I sure as hell will have to live with the dents forever. I’ll probably have to skimp on food for a month to save the money for new headlights.

“I could ask you the same thing.” The low grumble of a male voice reaches me through the open window before the door’s thrown open and out jumps a male in his late twenties.

I take a sharp breath. Then another, my heart skipping beats.

Wow.

He’s hot. And certainly not in an earthy, imperfect way.

He looks like a god.

His hair, dark and shiny, frames an attractive face with a straight nose, chiseled chin and the most stunning eyes I have ever seen. The expensive, light blue dress shirt can’t hide his broad shoulders or the fact that he’s probably sporting a six-pack beneath it. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong, tan arms and capable hands that don’t look like they’re stuck to a computer keyboard all day.

He works out…probably a lot.

He steps closer, and I can make out the color of his irises. In the dim light, his eyes shimmer in the dark crystal green shade of a beautiful, untouched lake.

Standing at six-foot-two, he oozes confidence and money.

And something else.

Sex.

The word invades my mind, and for a moment that’s all I can think about.

Hot, steamy, wild, rough sex. The kind of sex that has you gripping at the sheets as wave after wave of orgasm rolls over you.

I’m not cheap, but I’m not a saint either. I appreciate a hot guy when I see one. And this one tops the charts. And judging from the long line of women glancing at him, like bees swarming around an exotic flower, I know I’m not the only one having those kind of thoughts.

But not even a hot guy can distract me from the situation at hand.

I examine the damage to my car.

My car’s headlight is broken, while his car looks intact.

“There’s a scratch.” His voice is deep and low. His sexy accent sends a delicious tingle down my spine as I stare at my car in the knowledge it’ll cost me way too much to get it repaired—money I don’t have.

“You call that a scratch? Can you—” I turn sharply to face him and stop midsentence, expecting him to be inspecting my car.

Instead, he’s leaning over his car. “You’re right. It’s more of a chip.” Hot Guy points to a small nick, which I swear could just as well be a smudge of dirt, and trails a finger over it, his face drawn in worry. “This is going to be expensive.”

I scoff, feeling angry.

“You’re talking about a chip? Have you seen my car?”

He glances at it fleetingly before his eyes return to me. “That old thing? I’m surprised you can still drive it.”

My jaw drops as I’m rendered speechless.