Page 4 of Ignite

I didn’t see him. I really didn’t see him.

I didn’t notice the truck and if I did, the light had turned green. He should have been taking off.

He shouldn’t have been paused like my life had been this past year as I’d reeled from one loss to another.

But nothing could hide the screech of metal-on-metal as I hit him.

I couldn’t swerve, couldn’t stop in time.

The world operated in slow motion as I hit him.

My head bounced forward, and back until it stopped against the headrest, my chest pinned by the seatbelt as the two vehicles came together in a cosmic altercation. As my head stopped ringing and my stomach decided to stay in place, I checked my legs, chest, and arms. I wasn’t hurt. Actually, I couldn’t feel a thing wrong with me, physically.

My heart, however, had taken the full impact of every punch that had been thrown my way. Just when I thought there was nothing left to break, waking up to see my newsfeed flooded with messages had taken the shards of my heart and put them through a grinder.

And now, I’d just guaranteed to be the topic of conversation for the next week. If I was going to write my car off, why couldn’t it have been on one of the dirt, country roads where no one would find me for weeks?

Why did it have to be in the middle of town and watched by everyone I knew? I had just hit peak humiliation and my life was never going to be the same again.

What if I’d killed the person?

Damn. I had to think about the person I’d hit instead of my pathetic excuse for a life.

Before anyone had time to react, I undid my seatbelt and crawled into the backseat. The back passenger door was easy enough to kick open. I grabbed my wallet and phone and braced to face the town and the other driver.

With an expert eye, I wrote off my car as nothing more than spare parts. But the other truck seemed to be bent, but not broken. There didn’t seem to be any obvious structural damage.

I sucked in a breath and pretended we weren’t the only show in town as I prepared to knock on the window.

OMG.

There was only one person in the utility truck. He looked pissed off, but very much alive, thank goodness. And while the back of the ute appeared damaged, the front remained untouched.

I didn’t recognize the man gripping his neck as the airbag deflated. Had I lost my memory in the crash, because I knew everyone in town? But when he looked around, I took in the defined jawline and cheekbones—always my kryptonite—and the dirty blonde hair that would look perfect walking out of my shower. I wished we were meeting under any other circumstances. Perhaps the news I’d woken up to didn’t need to be the end of the world.

Perhaps, I could give all the town gossips something to talk about other than the photo that was now imprinted on my brain, or how I’d just caused an accident in the main street.

Of course, life didn’t want to throw me even a breadcrumb of hope.

Yes, there’d been instant chemistry—until he realized I’d been the one to hit him.

“Back the hell away from what’s left of my car.” He hadn’t yelled or shouted. But his deep growl had come from the pit of his stomach and had sucker punched me in mine.

What the living hell? I couldn’t remember the last time anyone spoke to me with such anger or hatred. I was a nice person. I did nice things for other people because it was the right thing to do, not for public recognition or applause.

Yes, I hit him, but he didn’t need to be a dick when I offered to call an ambulance. I stumbled backward and felt dizzy, perhaps from the realization that I’d just been in an accident, or because this day was going to shit, and I hadn’t even had coffee.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” I stammered and after falling over, I wobbled to my feet and backed up against the traffic light pole for support and to get a better look at both vehicles. “I really am sorry about your ute. But it doesn’t look that bad.”

I didn’t know whether the reassuring words were for him, or me, but from his point of view, as soon as he saw the damage firsthand, he’d have to be a little bit happy, “My car took the worst of it.”

Could I afford a new one? Did I have time to buy what I could afford and fix it up? I didn’t know, but knowing that I’d been at fault and would end up worse off than him, had to make him feel better, right?

“I don’t think you’ve hit the fuel tank.” He said, tracing his hand along his truck and I could see how much it meant to him. Some people loved their vehicles as if they were part of the family. Most guys I knew named their trucks with more care than they named their pets.

“You got lucky.” I gave him my professional smile before adding helpfully, “The damage only looks superficial. I can recommend a repairer.”

“I got lucky?” He spat back, and I didn’t know whether he’d found my reassurance condescending or whether he enjoyed being a dick. “Sweetheart,” he added, voice full of venom. “You. Hit. Me.”

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