I’m about to go back into the store, but stop short at the sight of the suit leaning against the side of my car, one ankle crossed over the other, all calm like. Dangling from a single finger is my knockoff, hot-pink Coach purse. “Forget something?”

CHAPTER 2

DOUBLE TROUBLE

PIERCE

Getting hit in the nuts with a full grocery cart hurts like hell. But I keep the smug smile in place as one of the twins walks toward me. The one who apparently didn’t hit my car. The other one—who did hit my car—stands about twenty feet away, nervously twisting her hands.

The twin making her way closer seems fairly embarrassed. Her cheeks are a fiery shade of pink as she approaches, full lips pressed into a line that almost looks like a pout. Her eyes are on her purse, which is hanging from the end of my finger. Since she’s not looking at me, I have the opportunity to check her out. Again.

Last week, I stopped at this grocery store on the way to my brother’s after a meeting I had in Manhattan. It hadn’t been a fun meeting, so I’d already been in a salty mood as a result. I’ve never been to this store before—but it’s not too far from his place on the beach, and I was in a bit of a rush at the time and in need of a bathroom. I figured while I was there, I could pick up some steaks for the barbeque and a whole lot of beer. As I was standing in line, waiting to check out, I noticed a woman with a belt full of vegetables and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch—one of my favorite juvenile indulgences.

Once I cashed out, I headed to the parking lot, where I noticed the same woman slip into the driver’s seat of her car—parked beside mine. And then I proceeded to watch her scrape the front of her car across my rear quarter panel when she pulled out of her parking spot. I stood frozen in horror as she ruined the paint job on my two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. I was expecting her to jump out of her car to check on the damage, or even to leave a note, because that’s what a decent human being would do. But no, she stopped for a moment, looked around, saw me standing all the way by the entrance of the grocery store, and drove off.

And now here she is again, except there are two of her. I hadn’t notice her then—she was just a woman who liked Cinnamon Toast Crunch and hit my car. But when I saw her in the cereal aisle and really got a good look at her, I noted how gorgeous she was. The kind of beautiful that numbs your tongue and jacks up your heart rate. It’s odd, but despite them being nearly identical, I’m only attracted to the one approaching me. It’s also good to know that I’m not into women who pull hit-and-runs.

She stops when she’s about three feet away and motions behind her, to her sister. “Mar told me what she did. I’m really sorry about that. And about”—she gestures to my crotch and her nose wrinkles in a grimace—“getting hit with the cart. But in all honesty, I thought you were some weirdo who was stalking me through a grocery store, and you knew what kind of car I drive. You have to admit it’s kind of creepy, plus you made that inappropriate comment about my cleavage, which was completely uncalled for.” What begins as an apology quickly turns into righteous indignation. She snaps her fingers and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re looking at my boobs.”

I lift my gaze to her face. “You were talking about them.” She does have a legitimate point about the cleavage comment, but I’m not admitting to that yet, not when her sister pulled a hit-and-run.

She plants her fists on her hips, eyes narrowed. They’re a pretty honey color, framed with long, thick lashes. She’s not wearing makeup, clearly the exercise wear is authentic, and she’s not one of those women who walks around in spandex all the time pretending she’s been to the gym. Based on the curve of her backside, which I’d been checking out in the grocery store, she definitely puts some work into it.

“Can I have my purse back, please?” she snaps.

“Sure.” When she takes a halting step toward me, I hold it out of reach. “As soon as I have your insurance and contact information.”

She blows out a breath and her eyes fall closed for a few seconds. When she opens them again, she plasters on a sweet smile and holds out her hand. “It’s in my purse.”

“Nice try, sweetheart, but that’s not going to work.”

She purses her lips and her nose wrinkles. “Would you stop calling me sweetheart?”

“Give me a name I can use if it bothers you so much.” Antagonizing her is ridiculously fun. I recognize I’m being an asshole, but then, I feel justified considering the three thousand dollars in damage that’s been done to my Tesla. I’ve had to resort to driving my truck most of the week, which is not as easy to park.

She sighs. “Rian. It’s Rian, and you are?”

“Ryan?” I try to fit the name with the woman standing in front of me.

“Like the boy’s name, except it’s spelled with an ‘i’ instead of a ‘y,’ in case you’d like to write that down somewhere.” She shoots me an annoyed smile. “And you are?”

“Pierce.”

“Of course.” She rolls her eyes. I don’t know what that’s all about, and I don’t get a chance to ask because she barrels on, “Well, I’d like to say it’s nice to meet you, Pierce, but under the circumstances that’d be a lie, so…” She gives her head a shake and mutters something else under her breath.

Beyond my ability to appreciate her appearance, I think I might be even more attracted to how prickly she’s being. “Not big on tact, are you?”

“Not really, no. Surprising I’m single, huh?” She looks up at the clear blue sky. “So, Pierce, why don’t you take down my contact information so we can deal with the scratch on your steel baby, or whatever, and we can all be on our way.”

“It’s a three-thousand-dollar scratch.”

She blinks a few times, mouth dropping open. She shoots a glare over her shoulder. “For the love of Golden Grahams. She couldn’t have parked beside a Civic or something. Had to be an expensive car that’s expensive to fix.”

I dig my phone out of my pocket, pull up my contact list, and add her name. “Your number?” I consider how differently this might’ve played out if I’d approached her under alternative circumstances.

Rian rattles off a number, and as soon as it’s added to my phone I call it. Muffled lyrics come from inside the purse dangling from my finger.

She arches a brow. “Satisfied?”

“I will be when I have your sister’s license and insurance information.”

“Mar, get over here,” she calls over her shoulder.

Her sister trudges our way, looking more than a little cagey, and angry. Which is ironic since she’s the one who hit my car, not the other way around. “What?”

Rian motions to me. “He needs a picture of your license and insurance information.”

“My license is at home. You drove.” She’s still doing that hand-twisting thing. “I really thought I tapped it.”

“Tapped? Feel free to check out the missing paint.” I motion to the side of my car.

Rian’s eyes go wide as she takes in the long scratch gouged out of the side. “Oh, for frack’s sake. Look at this!” She drags her sister over to see the damage.

“That could’ve been there before. Maybe I really did bump his car and someone else did that and he’s using us so he can get our insurance to pay for it.”