The Rules of Dating(119)

Elodie: Done. There’s a sucker born every minute.

Soren responded quickly.

Soren: Are you referring to me because of our bet or Larry the lawyer?

Elodie: Both. Thanks for the extra cash. See you payday.

***

Bang!

Shit.

I closed my eyes. This was the last thing I needed. I was forty-five minutes early for my interview, but that wasn’t enough time to deal with an accident. I put the car into park, being careful to leave it exactly in the position the accident had occurred, and got out. The front fender of my old Jeep Wrangler had a small dent and a few scratches, but the other car definitely bore the brunt of the damage. Its back tire was hissing and already halfway to flat. The rear wheel well had crumpled inward and pressed against the tire. The fancy-looking new Mercedes seemed to almost implode on impact.

“What the hell? You’ve got to be kidding me.” The driver of the Mercedes got out of his car and joined me to look at the damage. He raked his hand through his hair. “Didn’t you see me? I was backing into the spot.”

Of course. I not only hit what was probably a hundred-thousand-dollar car, but the driver had to have the jawline of a Greek god. Figures he’d be gorgeous to match his ostentatious car. I disliked him instantly.

“I was there first. You started backing up after I’d already started pulling in.”

“Already pulling in? I don’t think so. You tried to slip in while I was already backing up to parallel park. No one was behind me when I started.”

My hands flew to my hips. “Oh, yes, I was. You just didn’t see me. I pulled up behind you and waited. When you didn’t move after a minute, I even honked my horn. So I figured you were just double-parked, and I was clear to take the open spot. If you wouldn’t have nailed the gas, you would’ve had time to see me and stop before you hit me.”

His brows jumped up. “Hit you?” He pointed to his car. “I think it’s pretty obvious who hit who by the damage.”

I ignored him. “What, were you on the phone or something?”

He scowled. “I hope you have insurance.”

“No. I drive around without insurance.” I rolled my eyes. “Just because I don’t drive a fancy car like you doesn’t mean I’m a criminal.”

Mr. Mercedes huffed. “I have an appointment to get to. Can we just exchange information and be on our way?”

I took out my phone and started to take pictures of the damage. “No. We need a police report.”

“That’ll take an hour or two, at least. We don’t need a police report for such an obvious accident.”

“Are you going to admit it was your fault to your insurance company? Because while you may be able to afford a rate hike, I can’t.”

“I’m not going to admit it was my fault, because it wasn’t my fault.”

“That’s why we need a police report.”

Mr. Mercedes grumbled something I couldn’t make out and pulled his phone from his pocket. I assumed he was calling the police. But apparently, he wasn’t. I listened as he barked at whomever was on the other end of the phone.

“Tell Addison I’m running late and to start without me.”

No hi or hello. The man might be handsome and drive a nice car, but he was rude. He swiped to hang up without a goodbye, too.

My face apparently didn’t hide my disdain.

The jerk looked at me. “What?”

“I hope that wasn’t your wife. You weren’t very polite.”

He squinted at me. “I need to make another call. Why don’t you make yourself useful and call the police in the meantime?”

What a dick. I walked around to the other side of my car to grab my registration and insurance information from the glove compartment. When I walked back to where Mr. Rude Mercedes stood barking into his phone again, his eyes were glued to my legs. I shook my head and dialed 9-1-1.

The operator answered. “9-1-1. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“Hi. I just had an accident on the corner of Park and 24th.”

“Okay. Is anyone hurt and in need of medical treatment?”

I covered the phone and asked the other driver, “Are you hurt in any way? They’re asking if we need medical treatment.”

His response was curt. “I’m fine. Just tell them to hurry it up.”

I returned to the operator. “No, thank you. We’re both okay. Apparently the only things damaged are our cars and the other driver’s manners.”

Mr. Mercedes scowled at me.

I scowled right back.

After I hung up, I held out my paperwork to him. “Why don’t we exchange insurance information before the police come? I also have an important appointment to get to.”

He grabbed papers from his own car and pulled his license from his wallet. I took a photo of Hollis LaCroix’s ID. Naturally, he actually lived on Park Avenue—that went with the whole package. After snapping a shot of his insurance and registration, I noticed he was still examining my license when I finished.

“I can assure you it’s real, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He took a photo of my license and held it out to me with my other paperwork. “Connecticut, huh? That explains a lot.”

I snatched my stuff from Mr. Rude Hollis LaCroix. “How so?”