“Just listen for a second. It was a mistake. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”
Too many to count. I gritted my teeth and when she shrank back again, I realized it was more of an outside snarl. Too damn bad. “Phone,” I demanded again in an even lower voice.
She looked around, craning her neck.
“Think someone’s going to come help you, Hellcat?”
“It’s Dahlia, thank you.”
“Whatever.”
She huffed out a breath. “Look. I’ll pay for the damages. I know a great body shop.” She rummaged in her bag again. “Somehow, I’ll pay for it,” she muttered. She dragged some sort of wallet-looking thing out of her bag, this time in screaming pink. “But you have no idea what kind of day I had today. And then I just caught the guy I was sort of dating with his tongue down some chick’s throat—”
“Don’t care.”
She huffed out an imperceptible mumble of words.
I honestly didn’t care. I’d been in town for less than a week and this was the third fire I’d had to put out today. My store, Trick or Treat, had dealt with a damn electrical fire in the basement, and then one of my three-hundred-pound metal sculptures got lost in transit. Lost.
Three-hundred pounds. Unreal.
How did you lose anything three hundred pounds in a seven-foot crate?
And now my truck had been vandalized by some Carrie Underwood-wannabe, minus the blond hair.
My brand-new truck that I had just picked up off the lot today.
She popped open the pink monstrosity and an accordion of actual paper business cards fanned out. She plucked one out of the front part. “This is me. I have my own business so I’m not lying. You can find me here.” She closed some compartment and opened the other side. “And this is to one of the best shops in all of upstate New York. I redesigned his bedroom. You should have seen the before and after.” She held out the two cards. “Honestly, I’m good for it.”
I took the cards. Of course the name of her company was Designing Women. Dahlia McKenna. The card was decidedly feminine with soft pink card stock that was quickly turning to a waterlogged rose, thanks to the storm raging above us. I shoved the two cards into my jacket pocket. “Let me see your license.”
“My business license?”
“No, your driver’s license.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “Can you hold this?” She shoved her soggy, sparkly bag at me with the handcuffs hanging off the side.
I shoved them back in with a growl of disgust.
“You don’t have to be rude.”
“I don’t have to be...” I snapped my molars shut.
She dug out a bulging purple wallet out of the depths of her bag. She unzipped it and flashed me her license.
“Can I have my phone now?”
“Oh. Right.” She shoved her hand into the front of her clingy top and fished it out. She looked down at it and winced. “Sorry about the body glitter. I’m on my way to a bachelorette party.”
She was a damn sparkle from head to toe. Her hair was now inky black against her cheeks and neck, as well as clinging around her ridiculously dark eyes. Even her mouth was out of bounds with the rest of her face—lush and made for...
Nope. That was the end of that line of thought.
I blinked against the endless rain, but it didn’t make her top any less sparkly. It reminded me of a disco ball—with a distracting level of high, perfect breasts on display—and black pants that were now molded to every curve.
She tried to rub the face of my phone against her thigh to dry it, but there wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t wet.
I grabbed it from her and tried not to pay attention to how warm it was in my hand from her skin. I flicked the camera option on and lifted it to take a photo of her New York license. “You try to stiff me, Hellcat, and I’m going to the police.” I took a photo of the LITTLE DICK on the side of my truck and then her waterlogged, shocked face. I shoved her ruined gift bag back at her.
Outraged, she actually stomped her foot. “You can’t just snap a photo of me like that.”
“Watch me.” I took a photo of my truck outside the bar and another one of her for good measure before I climbed into my truck. I threw my phone into my cup holder and turned my truck over with an extra rev of my engine that was unnecessary but highly satisfying. She stumbled back and put her hand on a car for support.
She was hugging both her gift bag and suitcase of a purse against her chest as I backed out of the spot and left her standing in the street. I glanced in my rearview mirror and found her running after me with her phone in her hand. I couldn’t help a laugh as she was taking a photo of the ass end of my truck.
As if she was the injured party at this point.
How the hell had I added this crap to my to-do list? Now I’d have to find a way to get my truck fixed. Maybe I should just deal with my insurance and get it over with through them. I highly doubted that Miss—I pulled out the pink card and read off her name again—Dahlia McKenna would actually pay for the damages. I tossed both cards in my console. I’d probably never get paid by her or the supposed body shop. Hell, I should probably just fix it myself.
How hard could it be? I had all the welding tools.
In storage.
The throbbing in my head intensified at the thought of my welding mask. The torch that used to feel like an actual appendage. Until it didn’t. Until the metal warped and exploded.
Nope.
I shut the door on that night. My hand immediately went to the jagged skin under my eye, and I put it out of my mind.
