Drop Dead Gorgeous(4)

Suddenly, she blinks as if waking from a long sleep, and her eyes go aggressively cold, almost mechanically scanning my body, head to toe and back up again as words pour past her lips at lightning speed. “Oh, my God, are you okay? Broken bones, blood? There’s probably internal bleeding, or you might have a concussion. We should call an ambulance.”

Her nod makes it seem like she’s agreeing with my suggestion on the need for some expert help here, but it’s odd that she’s overly concerned about me considering I’m standing here just fine and she hasn’t moved from the driver seat yet.

“I’m fine,” I reassure her, even squatting down in her open door to get to her level, “but I’m not sure you are. Do you hurt anywhere? How’s your head?”

She scoffs, waving a hand airily. “I’m fine.” But that hand goes to her head, smoothing the dark hair back into her low bun and checking for any tender spots. I watch closely, but as soon as she realizes she has an audience, her hand drops instantly. But the truth is, I’m not checking her for injuries . . . well, not totally.

She’s stunning. Even as discombobulated as she is, her creamy skin, coal-black hair, and pale blue eyes all emphasize a face that is truly one of the most perfectly formed faces I’ve ever seen. She’s a model of utter symmetry, that so-called ‘golden ratio’ that I remember reading about in an article once that tried to scientifically ‘explain’ beauty.

Seeing it in person, though, I’m struck by the fact that scientists might be able to explain it, but beauty like this can only be beheld to be truly appreciated and understood. And that understanding is far, far beyond the numbers, statistics, and ratios I live and breathe.

“Do you know who you are? Where you are? What happened?” I finally ask, just to have something to say.

She stares at me with an otherworldly vacant look, and I feel it down to my soul, piercing and sharp. “Oh, my God, no. Who am I? Who are you? Are you my husband? Is this one of those candid camera prank shows gone wrong?” She gazes blankly at the steering wheel and whispers to herself, “What happened?”

My guts churn, and I recoil, desperate to help this woman. “Shit. Hang on, let me call you an ambulance, ma’am.” I fumble my phone, dropping it to the concrete. “Fuck!”

I curse at the same time the woman gasps in horror. “Oh, no! Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Thankfully, my phone’s not broken when I pick it up, but the woman’s brows are now knit together and her eyes are clear. She was fucking with me. No matter how beautiful, that’s not cool. “Seriously? I thought you’d lost your damn mind!”

She shrugs, her lips twitching at the corners. “That only works if you have one to begin with.”

“Huh?”

She’s got me spinning, and I haven’t decided if it’s fun like a tilt-a-whirl or awful like being strapped to a helicopter rotor while it revs up to chopping-off-your-head speed. The verdict is still out.

“Sorry, you looked so earnest,” she says finally, smiling a little more. “I couldn’t help it. Really, I’m okay. Just horrified and sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” I lift a brow, gifting her with a glare my sister calls The Mini Rock, and explain. “Well, you should apologize for the fake amnesia because we’re not living in a daytime soap opera and that was just mean. But the accident was just that . . . an accident. The important thing is, we’re okay. Can you get out so we can check the cars?” We do need to do that, but mostly, I want to see if she can stand. Despite her quick-thinking joke, I’m prepped, ready to catch her if she goes down, because I’m still not entirely sure she’s as okay as she says.

But she’s steady as a rock on her feet, to my relief.

Whoops . . . spoke too soon. She swoons, and I catch her in my arms. “Hey there,” I whisper, way too close to her now. But with her this close, I can see that her blue eyes are shot through with streaks of white, her long lashes blink slowly, and there’s a small freckle beneath her right eye, not ruining her perfect face but just highlighting her remarkable beauty.

And her lips . . . full, pink pillows that beg to be kissed. Or bitten, as she’s doing right now.

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes again. “My heart is still pumping fast, and I’m full of adrenaline from the fight or flight response. Made me a little lightheaded, but I’m good now.”

Despite her words, neither of us makes a move for a long second where I memorize what she feels like in my arms. Sweet curves and strong muscles press against me, and I’m tempted to sweep her into my arms, full princess-mode style. And that is so not my way, usually, but she’s activating some possessive protector gene in me.

One I would’ve said I don’t have. I’ve always been proud of living by my mind and not my testicles. But this woman . . .

Too soon, she pulls away, straightening her back and then her black polo shirt. The embroidery on the chest is gold, a star encircled with Williamson County.

Wait . . . gold star, Williamson County . . . sensible shirt and sensible sedan.

Did I get hit by a cop?

From somewhere in her car, a ding-ding-ding sounds, and I realize that it’s not the first time it’s happened while I was holding the woman in my arms. “Were you on your phone?”