Page 6 of Heart Signs

He forgot to count. Instead he slapped a hand on the wheel and slammed out of the car. The brunette was already doing the same, the offending lipstick still clutched in her fist.

In the old days, he might’ve given her the benefit of the doubt. He’d been responsible too. Though even that was her fault, for looking so damn sexy while putting on her makeup. One of the curses of having a convertible was that the other cars seemed inches away, making it too easy to people-watch.

Or in this case, get a raging fucking hard-on from the blaze of gray eyes under her fringe of dark spiky hair.

The woman rushed toward him on her high, high heels, her face aghast. She seemed like a little thing but she probably wasn’t that small. Everyone seemed little to him. Still, gray eyes. Hard-on. Didn’t compute.

For chrissakes, he didn’t get random woods anymore. Dani used to hate his flirting, and eventually he’d just stopped. With everything he’d done, conceding that much hadn’t felt like that big of a sacrifice.

So what the hell was this? Some sort of leftover energy hit from the crash? A pseudo-sexual break?

Staring at her only increased the sense of urgency. It scrambled his brain and sped up his heart. His lungs cramped as if he’d run a mile. And still she stood in front of him, not trembling in the slightest though he would’ve sworn every one of his muscles quivered with anticipation.

He hadn’t bumped his head. But damn if he didn’t like the way his nerve endings had jumped to life. He hadn’t been breathless and hungry like this in eons. So long that the sensation unnerved him almost as much as he wanted to see where it went.

“Sorry I hit you.” Her voice comforted him, like warm milk and a bedtime story. Emphasis on bed. Distinct even in the cacophony of horns and rattling mufflers. “I was rushing. Wasn’t paying attention. Stupid.” With a pained laugh, she dropped the lipstick in purse and swung her attention to his car. “Sweet hell, it’s a Chevelle!”

Before he could reply, she dashed forward and buffed her hand over the fender, worship apparent in every reverent stroke. “Early seventies, right? With the classic black stripes.” She whistled between her teeth. “Shit, must’ve set you back a brick.”

The only brick he could think about at the moment was the one wedged in his jeans. Her coming closer hadn’t helped with his erection. She smelled good, but not because of something that came out of a bottle. Her scent was much more organic. The smoke of a campfire on a summer breeze. Toasted marshmallows. Making love on a windswept beach, with firelight dancing in her eyes and the ocean lapping at their feet.

Their feet. Right. Fine time to interject himself into the movie she’d inspired behind his eyes.

His self-imposed exile must’ve taken a toll. Six months since Dani had died, almost two years before that since he’d touched or taken a woman. His wife. She’d been that in name only for the end of their marriage but he’d remained faithful. That, too, was another small concession. Not very much in the scheme of things. He’d been proud that he rarely looked at another. His love and devotion were strong enough to overcome even basic biology.

But they weren’t enough to overcome death.

He’d had faith Dani would forgive him. That one day she would wake up and see they’d had too much good to throw away. It had never happened. Now she was gone.

Sam sucked in a breath that burned. It didn’t make sense. None of this did. First his impulse this morning, then this crazy whirl of emotions on the verge of taking him out with one blow. She didn’t smell like a campfire or marshmallows. The sun wasn’t setting behind her, tipping her rich black hair with flames. But when she turned to grin at him, he could see the scene so vividly that he had to reach out to grip his car door.

What the hell was happening to him?

“I should give you my insurance card,” she said into the silence, drawing her full lower lip between her teeth. “I’m covered. I know these things cost a mint to fix, but it doesn’t look like the scratches are too bad. There’s only a couple and they’re pretty shallow.” She traced her fingers over Bertha’s wounds and Sam’s cock hardened to steel. “I’m really sorry.”

The last thing he cared about at the moment was damages or insurance. For the first time in forever, his skin was on fire, and it wasn’t from the beaming September sun. This was all her. This nameless woman who’d sparked something inside him and set it ablaze without even knowing his goddamn name.

Nor did he know hers. It didn’t matter. He’d know what her lush, giving body felt like beneath him and how she stretched around his length when he slid deep. That was enough.

Adrenaline buzzed through his system, a heady drug he hadn’t experienced in so long. He’d be damned if the feeling escaped before he’d made good use of it. Whether it was the rush from the minor fender bender or simply her, he didn’t care. He would ride this wave until it bottomed out.

“If you want to exchange information, I live eight blocks from here, at 16 Kimchee Road,” he said, his gaze trained on her face. Any hesitation and he’d back away. Get in his car, drive back to his apartment and take out his frustration on his punching bag.

But there was only interest. Only fascination turning those remarkable eyes from mist gray to the ashen color of the smoke that pumped out from the exhaust when an engine was burning oil.

“You free?” he finished, hoping he so

unded less idiotic than he felt.

Free. What an insane question. He’d never be free again, not completely. And here he was asking a total stranger if she happened to be something that sounded so impossibly wonderful that his breath stumbled. What he wouldn’t give for freedom. Or to forget, just for a little while. Maybe, just maybe, she could give him that.

Small price to pay for some scratches.

“Yes.” She grabbed the flat disk around her throat and flipped it between her fingers. “I’m free.”

Unthinkingly, he dropped his gaze to her license plate. Fowl ’Er.

To anyone else, that would probably seem like an odd chicken joke or something. But after all the sports emails he’d exchanged with Rory, he knew exactly what it meant.

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