“Snob,” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
She held up her hands, pleading. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at her, trying to figure out if she was dangerously crazy or simply foolish. “And tell me, what did this boyfriend of yours do to deserve an attack on his vehicle? Did he not return a text? Come home late for dinner? Call you by another woman’s name in bed?”
“I bet you think that’s funny!”
“It’s about as funny as the deep scratches in my paintwork,” he shot back.
She looked dazedly at the damage she had caused, but he noted that she didn’t answer his question outright. “I don’t know what got into me, but I will pay for the damage.”
He did a quick calculation of the value of the damage is his head and smirked at her. “I highly doubt you will be able to—”
“I will,” she interrupted fiercely. “You don’t have to look at me like I’m… like I’m a pauper!”
Fair enough, he thought. Maybe he was being a bit of an asshole. But still, she’d gone after his baby. A thought came to him, and he swooped down to retrieve her purse, which was lying forlornly in a puddle. As he opened it, she made a grab at it, which he dodged easily.
“What are you doing?” she demanded frantically.
Without answering, he removed her wallet, withdrew her driver’s license, and took a snap of it. Now he had her name and address. He shoved her wallet back into the purse and handed it back to her. “I will be in touch, mademoiselle Philmore. We will come to an agreement to repair my car, or we take this up with the police.”
Her tiny squeak of horror let him know he’d struck a nerve. He was about to get back into his car when another thought hit him: could he really leave a soaking wet woman alone in a strip mall parking lot at three in the morning? “Are you okay to get home?” he asked more gently.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. “Just dandy!”
He nodded courteously, trying not to smile at her spirited response. “Then, mademoiselle, I wish you well.Au revoir.”
CHAPTER 4
“YOU WRECKED SOME GUY’S car?” Sienna screeched over the phone.
Jacyn tapped down the volume control on her Bluetooth headset. “I thought it wasGregg’s,”she reminded her, for the third time in the conversation. What about this was her friend not getting?
“Right. Because the horses on the Mustang and Ferrari logos are so similar.”
“A horse is a horse is a horse! How am I supposed to tell the difference? Besides, you’re supposed to be my friend,” Jacyn snapped. “Why aren’t you backing me up on this?”
“Friends don’t let friends get away with doing something stupid,” Sienna reminded her.
Jacyn huffed. “Well, the license plate numbers were similar. Sort of. There was a T and an L. Maybe a 3, or it might have been an 8. It was raining!”
Jacyn realized that in her frustration she was banging about the pots and pans on her workspace, which did her headache no favors. She hadn’t slept much the night before, but it was more out of guilt and shame over her moment of stupidity in the parking lot—trashing that French guy’s car—than over Gregg and his wedding.
She was preparing to begin working on a small test batch of clarifying shampoo, and was covered from head to toe in personal protective gear: rubber boots, long-sleeved denim coveralls, a bandana over her hair, wraparound goggles and a surgical mask. All quite necessary, considering that an essential element in the shampoo-making process was potassium hydroxide; an extremely corrosive form of lye. Woe betide any soap maker who got arrogant and felt they could do away with basic PPE!
Before she could say anything more to Sienna, there was a sharp rapping at her front door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but she lived in a duplex, and the people next door ate takeout six days out of seven. Quite often the delivery persons came to the wrong door.
“Hang on a sec,” she said to Sienna and went to the door. “If you’re coming from Chaing’s or Pandafoot, the people you want are next door!” she yelled.
Throwing the portal open, she discovered that it was not a delivery person from any of the twenty or so restaurants and diners her neighbors frequented. It was a tall, brown-haired, imposing man, in a casual but very expensive-looking leather jacket and a pair of jeans that looked like they had been ironed while he was still wearing it.
The French guy. From last night.
“Oh,” she exhaled.
Sienna was still on the line with her. “What? Who is that? You okay?” Like any best friend, Sienna was ready to back her up at a moment’s notice.