Page 1 of Wicked Arrangement

Chapter 1

Kimberly

Today has been one of those days where nothing seems to be going my way. Not only were we understaffed at the diner, but then Brenda was late for her shift, again, even though she promised to be in on time so I’d be able to freshen up, change into my party outfit, and beat the rush hour. Not that I can be mad at her for it, Brenda’s a single mom, and the string of useless babysitters willing to work for the little money she can afford often let her down at the last minute.

That is why I’m now stuck in traffic on my way to my friend Amelia’s birthday party, still dressed in my uniform. The mortifyingly hideous retro diner dress is too small for me so the top button continually pops open under the strain of my cleavage. I worry every time I bend over that customers are going to get an eyeful, not that half of the creeps who come in would complain. I just hope I can sneak into the party and change before anyone sees me, Amelia’s chosen a pretty fancy establishment for her twenty-first and although she’s too nice to say anything, she’d be mortified if I showed up looking like this, and late no less. If there’s one thing I hate most about living in Atlanta, it’s the traffic.

Amelia and I have only recently rekindled our friendship, so I really don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it. Growing up in Charleston, we were inseparable, but when we were sixteen Amelia’s dad got a job in Miami, and they moved away. She’sonly just moved to Atlanta, and I reached out, hoping to get back one good thing I’ve lost.

Finally, the line of cars starts to move and I floor it, praying the traffic is finally clearing. My phone pings with a flurry of incoming messages and I glance over at it, the display shows it’s Amelia, wondering where I am. When I glance back up at the road, I realize with horror that the cars have come to a standstill again and I have to slam on my breaks. But my rusted old car’s breaks are worn, and it dawns on me with sickening clarity that I’m not slowing down enough, I’m going to crash straight into the back of the SUV in front, one with a big ‘Baby on board’ sign plastered to the back.

I swerve, deciding to overtake and nip into the space that has just become free while the cars on the other side of the road are held up at a crosswalk. I think I can make it if I’m fast enough.

My relief that I’m going to make it as I overtake and pull in is quickly replaced by horror as I realize my mistake. There’s a quiet side street that’s blocked from view by the giant SUV. Typical of the way my luck’s been going today, there’s just one car, a very expensive-looking Mercedes, on the side street that happens to be turning into the gap just as I’m trying to enter it too. The crash is inevitable.

There’s a sickening crunch of metal hitting metal as I collide with the back of the car. The impact throws me back with such force that I immediately whiplash forward, my head smacking into the steering wheel. The airbag goes off a moment later, thankfully just as I lift my head so it impacts my chest, knocking the breath out of my lungs. I sit there, dazed andwinded for a moment. The sounds of car horns blaring inform me that I’ve royally pissed off half of Atlanta.

As much as I don’t want to, I know I’ve got to face the driver of the other vehicle. I grab my purse and hesitantly exit the car, already doing mental calculations of how much this is going to cost me as I look at the damage. Insurance will only cover so much, and I really can’t afford the base rate, nor the inevitable monthly insurance cost increase this will no doubt incur.

The driver is already out of the car surveying the damage. He’s a stocky man, a little under six foot, and dressed smartly in an unassuming black suit. Flustered, I call out to him.

“I am so sorry, sir! It was a complete accident, I—”

My voice trails off as I’m speaking, and I stop in my tracks. My attention is fully diverted to the person getting out of the backseat of the car.

My first thought isGreat, I’ve managed to rear-end show chauffeur-driven snob.My second thought is,Holy shit, that is one attractive man.

The passenger of the Mercedes looks like he’s just stepped off of a Hollywood movie set. The phrase tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t even do this man justice. He’s at least six-three with dark brooding eyes and full lips, his brown hair is perfectly styled and the designer stubble that caresses his chiseled jawline is impeccably maintained. The suit he’s wearing probably cost more than my car and it’s so well-tailored that it’s evident it’s hiding a killer body underneath.

It’s not just the fact that this man is blindingly gorgeous that makes my jaw drop and causes me to become even more flustered than before. It’s the raw, dangerously powerful energy that radiates from him.

Trust me to have crashed into a demi-god.

He hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction, why would he trouble himself with an insignificant mortal like me? Instead, he’s involved in a discussion with the driver. As I nervously approach, I hear the man speaking in a smooth masculine voice with an accent—Russian perhaps?

“After that, move the cars out of the way,” he orders.

“Yes, sir,” the driver agrees, heading back to the Mercedes. He pulls out his phone and proceeds to take photos of my car and his before making some calls.

“Keys,” the man barks.

I’m momentarily confused, it’s only when he repeats, “Keys,” sounding more exasperated this time and holding his hand out toward me that I realize he’s speaking to me.

I meet his unflinching gaze, confused. “Sorry?”

I don’t know if it’s the bump to the head or this man’s intimidating presence that has me confused and tongue-tied.

He sighs, before speaking as though he’s talking to a simpleton. “Once he’s moved my car, my driver will come and move your car out of the way of the traffic. That way you won’t inconvenience anyone else’s day any more than you already have. And clearly, you’re not capable of moving it yourself. Isthat thing even safe to have out on the roads?” he asks, looking disapprovingly at my beaten-up old car.

His commanding tone and judgmental attitude rub me the wrong way and I bristle a little at his implication that I’m an incompetent driver and a nuisance.

“Not all of us can afford to drive cars that cost over half a million dollars,” I snap.

“Nor can you afford the cost of repairing one either, I assume,” he replies sardonically, looking me up and down.

My cheeks flush red with embarrassment and I curse Brenda for being late. Somehow this whole encounter would feel a lot less mortifying if I wasn’t in my uniform. Not that a man like this would look twice at me, no matter what I wore, if it wasn’t for the fact I hit him with my car. My embarrassment quickly transforms into anger. How dare this pompous prick talk down to me just because he’s rich? I might be at fault for the accident but there’s no need for him to act like he’s better than me just because he has a fancy car.

“You know nothing about me,” I snap. “I’m perfectly capable of moving my own car. I’m not just going to hand my keys over to some stranger and let them drive off.”

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