Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  I climb out, walking up to the woman’s door. “You okay?”

  She blinks, staring vacantly at her hands which are now wrapped around the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. I knock on the window, and she jumps as though surprised I’m standing here.

  She seems to be in shock, or at least on the verge of it.

  “Do you need an ambulance? Are you okay?” I’m already pulling my phone out to make the call, but the question seems to wake her from her trance and she reaches down to turn the car off. She opens her door, and I step back to give her room and try again. “Hey, you good?”

  “I can’t believe I hit you.” The insurance representative in my mind automatically stores away that she just admitted fault. But there’s an undercurrent of something that sounds like fear in her tone. She’s scared shitless over something besides a car accident.

  Suddenly, she blinks as if waking from a long sleep, and her eyes go aggressively cold, almost mechanically scanning my body, head to toe and back up again as words pour past her lips at lightning speed. “Oh, my God, are you okay? Broken bones, blood? There’s probably internal bleeding, or you might have a concussion. We should call an ambulance.”

  Her nod makes it seem like she’s agreeing with my suggestion on the need for some expert help here, but it’s odd that she’s overly concerned about me considering I’m standing here just fine and she hasn’t moved from the driver seat yet.

  “I’m fine,” I reassure her, even squatting down in her open door to get to her level, “but I’m not sure you are. Do you hurt anywhere? How’s your head?”

  She scoffs, waving a hand airily. “I’m fine.” But that hand goes to her head, smoothing the dark hair back into her low bun and checking for any tender spots. I watch closely, but as soon as she realizes she has an audience, her hand drops instantly. But the truth is, I’m not checking her for injuries . . . well, not totally.

  She’s stunning. Even as discombobulated as she is, her creamy skin, coal-black hair, and pale blue eyes all emphasize a face that is truly one of the most perfectly formed faces I’ve ever seen. She’s a model of utter symmetry, that so-called ‘golden ratio’ that I remember reading about in an article once that tried to scientifically ‘explain’ beauty.

  Seeing it in person, though, I’m struck by the fact that scientists might be able to explain it, but beauty like this can only be beheld to be truly appreciated and understood. And that understanding is far, far beyond the numbers, statistics, and ratios I live and breathe.

  “Do you know who you are? Where you are? What happened?” I finally ask, just to have something to say.

  She stares at me with an otherworldly vacant look, and I feel it down to my soul, piercing and sharp. “Oh, my God, no. Who am I? Who are you? Are you my husband? Is this one of those candid camera prank shows gone wrong?” She gazes blankly at the steering wheel and whispers to herself, “What happened?”

  My guts churn, and I recoil, desperate to help this woman. “Shit. Hang on, let me call you an ambulance, ma’am.” I fumble my phone, dropping it to the concrete. “Fuck!”

  I curse at the same time the woman gasps in horror. “Oh, no! Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. I’m sorry.”

  “What?” Thankfully, my phone’s not broken when I pick it up, but the woman’s brows are now knit together and her eyes are clear. She was fucking with me. No matter how beautiful, that’s not cool. “Seriously? I thought you’d lost your damn mind!”

  She shrugs, her lips twitching at the corners. “That only works if you have one to begin with.”

  “Huh?”

  She’s got me spinning, and I haven’t decided if it’s fun like a tilt-a-whirl or awful like being strapped to a helicopter rotor while it revs up to chopping-off-your-head speed. The verdict is still out.

  “Sorry, you looked so earnest,” she says finally, smiling a little more. “I couldn’t help it. Really, I’m okay. Just horrified and sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.” I lift a brow, gifting her with a glare my sister calls The Mini Rock, and explain. “Well, you should apologize for the fake amnesia because we’re not living in a daytime soap opera and that was just mean. But the accident was just that . . . an accident. The important thing is, we’re okay. Can you get out so we can check the cars?” We do need to do that, but mostly, I want to see if she can stand. Despite her quick-thinking joke, I’m prepped, ready to catch her if she goes down, because I’m still not entirely sure she’s as okay as she says.

  But she’s steady as a rock on her feet, to my relief.

  Whoops . . . spoke too soon. She swoons, and I catch her in my arms. “Hey there,” I whisper, way too close to her now. But with her this close, I can see that her blue eyes are shot through with streaks of white, her long lashes blink slowly, and there’s a small freckle beneath her right eye, not ruining her perfect face but just highlighting her remarkable beauty.

  And her lips . . . full, pink pillows that beg to be kissed. Or bitten, as she’s doing right now.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes again. “My heart is still pumping fast, and I’m full of adrenaline from the fight or flight response. Made me a little lightheaded, but I’m good now.”

  Despite her words, neither of us makes a move for a long second where I memorize what she feels like in my arms. Sweet curves and strong muscles press against me, and I’m tempted to sweep her into my arms, full princess-mode style. And that is so not my way, usually, but she’s activating some possessive protector gene in me.

  One I would’ve said I don’t have. I’ve always been proud of living by my mind and not my testicles. But this woman . . .

  Too soon, she pulls away, straightening her back and then her black polo shirt. The embroidery on the chest is gold, a star encircled with Williamson County.

  Wait . . . gold star, Williamson County . . . sensible shirt and sensible sedan.

  Did I get hit by a cop?

  From somewhere in her car, a ding-ding-ding sounds, and I realize that it’s not the first time it’s happened while I was holding the woman in my arms. “Were you on your phone?”

  The accusation is harsh, and she goes as hard as steel in an instant. “Of course not! That’s dangerous. I’m an excellent driver.”

  “Really? The evidence to the contrary is quite apparent, right in front of us.” The damage my question caused is done. Way to go, Blake. Super smooth, asshole.

  “Let me get my card and my insurance information for you. I have to get to work. DBs don’t wait.”

  I have no idea who or what a DB is or why they don’t wait, but business mode I understand. I pull out my card and hand it to her as I take hers, reading it over.

  Zoey Walker, Coroner, Williamson County.

  Well, that answers that question. Not a cop, but close.

  Dealing with the county for accident coverage shouldn’t be too difficult either, thank goodness. They’re not some low-budget, liability-only single office that doesn’t want to pay and tries to weasel out of every red penny.

  Mostly, I just enjoy that I know her name now. She seems like a Zoey, beautiful and a bit mischievous.

  I take pictures of her car and mine with my phone, and she follows suit after silencing the new round of ding-ding-dings. She pops the hood of her car so I can take a picture of the front-end damage, then gets on her phone, I guess to call for a ride.

  “That everything, Mr. Hale?” she asks when she’s done. “I need to get going.”

  That she used my name at least lets me know she read my business card too, but I hate that she’s trying to get away from me so quickly. I want to hold her again, maybe feed her lunch, even though the gas station is the only thing nearby. And only to make sure she’s okay, of course. Fine, and also to see if she’ll go soft for me again with a hot dog in front of her.

  Damn, I’m such an idiot.

  As if anyone wants to eat pseudo-food that’s been whirling away on hot rollers for hours on end, getting stale and dry. The lazy fucks didn’t even
come out to check on us after the accident, and we’ve been parked in their lot now for at least ten minutes. Still . . . “Blake. You can call me Blake.”

  I see her mouth move, as though she’s silently saying my name. I want to taste it on her lips.

  But then it’s like a pink haze clears and she robotically says, “I won’t be saying it at all. Call the county offices. They’ll handle the insurance. Goodbye, Mr. Hale.”

  Our conversation clearly over, she goes to the back of her car and gets out a large black bag and what looks like a tackle box, obviously tools of her trade. A minute later, another dark sedan pulls up and she gets in, consciously avoiding my gaze as she pulls away from me.

  I have the urge to chase after her, but that’s ridiculous. Even if I found her stunningly gorgeous and intriguing, with her running hot and then cold, I’m not superpowered.

  Besides, thirty seconds after Zoey drives off, a county patrol car pulls up, and I’ve got other shit to worry about as a deputy gets out, leaning on the hood. “Well now . . . guess I should call for a couple o’ wreckers now, shouldn’t I?”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  Chapter 3

  Blake

  I watch the first wrecker’s tail lights disappear easily, the traffic having cleared. It’s not surprising. That’s what traffic does—backs up because of a slow-moving tractor or an accident, and then it disappears when there’s enough time and space for everyone to move.

  Sucks that it cleared just in time to let Zoey drive away from me, though.

  With a sigh, I get into the Uber I had to call and slowly pull out of the gas station too, unfortunately going the opposite direction as Zoey.

  A few minutes later, we pull up to the address my sister, Amy, gave me. It’s nothing more than a corn field among other corn fields. I’d think she was setting me up for one of her pranks, except her car is sitting on the side of the road.

  “You sure, dude?” my driver asks, looking around with concern.

  “Yeah,” I tell him, tapping his tablet to confirm the charges. “Thanks.”

  I get out and see my sister. For argument's sake, she drives a very sensible white Volvo. Not a pink Barbie car in sight.

  But she’s already scowling. “You’re late, Frosted Blakes. And what’s with the fuckin’ Uber?”

  Ugh, the nickname she gave me when we were kids.

  It drives me crazy and there’s not a single other person I allow to call me that without dire consequences. Until Amy met and married Fernanda. Since Amy always calls me Frosted Blakes, Fernanda took up the habit, and I respect—and fear—her enough that I let it slide with her too.

  “Yeah, had a bit of a holdup on the way here,” I reply evenly.

  That stops her from putzing with the camera she’s tweaking even though there’s a cameraman standing right there who is eyeing Amy like she’s messing with his baby.

  “What happened?”

  She knows I have contingency plans for my emergency plans and always leave early in case I’m delayed. But even I couldn’t have foreseen Zoey Walker.

  “Bit more than a fender bender,” I say carefully, knowing that it’s like ever-so-politely pulling the pin on a grenade. “Had to call a wrecker.”

  “What?” she yells, smacking the cameraman for no good reason. He recoils, and I understand. My sister throws chops like a pro wrestler. “Are you okay?”

  She comes over and starts turning my face left and then right as she checks me over.

  “Still good looking?” I ask with a smile.

  She smacks me then too. Somewhere, I think Ric Flair just yelled ‘WHOOOOOO!’ without knowing why. “Don’t get cocky with me, Blake. Are you hurt? What happened? What about the other guy?”

  When I don’t answer her barrage of questions fast enough, one hand goes to her hip as she growls, “Well?”

  I grin. “You look just like Mom when you do that ‘I already know what you did, so you might as well confess’ face.”

  Amy growls at the comparison, even though Mom’s a good woman who’s dealt with more than enough shit from raising Amy and me. “Don’t deflect. Spill.”

  I give in, knowing it’s useless to resist. “She pulled out and T-boned my passenger side. We got the cars into the parking lot and exchanged information. She was fine, I’m fine.” I make sure to deliver the details as succinctly and dryly as possible, but Amy has known me since the day I was born and knows all my tells. Even the ones I don’t know I have, which must be what gives me away because she digs in for more information.

  “She? Fine? Information?” They’re not questions. They’re puzzle pieces she’s putting together as the words pass over her lips, and I can already see the completed picture she’s going to come up with.

  I point a thick finger her way, shaking my head. “Don’t go there. It was a traffic accident. I’ll deal with the county to get the car fixed and never see her again.” Why does a thread of disappointment accompany those words? I mean, yeah, Zoey is beautiful, but a few minutes of conversation, especially one where she made me think she had amnesia, are not something to be smiling like an idiot about. But I am. With a few minutes of distance, that shit was funny.

  “County?”

  “She works for Williamson County,” I explain. “Coroner.”

  The cameraman must be on my side, thinking Amy is more pitbull than should be humanly possible, because he interrupts phase two of her interrogation. “Amy, if you care, your clock’s ticking.”

  Buddy, you deserve a Medal of Valor or something for that. It takes balls to interrupt my sister, and yours just got put in jeopardy. But I’m grateful because I don’t have the answers to phase one questions, much less phase two.

  “This isn’t over,” she warns me. Instead, she shoves me toward a mustard yellow wing chair that is sitting on the edge of the corn field.

  I eye it skeptically. “Amy, why is there a chair that belongs in Grandma’s sitting room out here in the middle of a field?”

  “Are you doubting my artistic vision?” she challenges.

  The answer is no, unequivocally. The truth is . . . absolutely yes.

  Amy is brilliant in her own way. It’s just a very different way from my own analytical smarts, so we don’t often ‘get’ each other, though we can appreciate the other’s talents.

  Still, the discordant nature of the fancy furniture and the rustic overgrown weeds is way out of my wheelhouse and seems weird and eccentric, which are two things that do not appeal to the masses. At least, not insurance buying masses.

  Especially the ones in this part of the state.

  I must give away my thoughts with another one of my tells because Amy crosses her arms, throws a hip out, and looks down her nose at me despite being a foot shorter. “Do not say what you’re thinking or you will be officially uninvited from Sunday brunch.”

  Shit, she’s bringing out the big guns.

  I grab my chest, wounded. “You wouldn’t. You know how much I look forward to Fernanda’s Sunday brunches.”

  That’s the God’s honest truth. If something were to happen to Amy and Fernanda—not that I think it ever would because they’re the real deal—I’d still end up on Fernanda’s doorstep every Sunday. She’s an amazing cook and I just couldn’t give that up.

  Plus, I might like her a teeny bit better than my sister, especially when she’s glaring at me like she is now.

  “The chair looks fabulous,” I say politely, not meaning it in the slightest but not risking losing Fernanda’s chilaquiles.

  Amy pats my chest more than a little too hard. “Thought so. Let’s do this, people.”

  The cameraman and I exchange looks because we’re the only other ‘people’ here.

  A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the Grandma chair and Amy is sitting in the dirt by my feet holding a reflector with one hand and a tablet with my prompts in the other, while the cameraman is giving me the ‘action’ sign.

  “Caring for your loved ones is important in life, and thoug
h we don’t like to talk about it, in death.” I pause, staring at the camera earnestly.

  “Call me, Blake Hale, today, and together, we can make sure your family knows you care. Smile like you give a shit.” I blink, realizing a moment too late that was supposed to be an actual smile, not one of my spoken lines.

  “Cut,” Amy says as the cameraman quickly hides a grin. “Do I need to explain how this works again?”

  The answer is no, so I smile like I was supposed to for the take and say, “Yeah, maybe so.”

  She offers a long-suffering sigh, like she’s Kubrick herself. “You, dear brother, are a statistical genius and a life insurance salesman. And I am . . .”

  She draws it out, making it clear I’m supposed to fill in the blank by singing her praises. I do my best.

  “A marketing genius, an advertising savant.” She waves her hand in a circle expectantly. “The best sister I could ever hope for?”

  She points at me, placated for now. “That’s right. And you know that my ideas for your previous commercial increased your business . . . by how much?”

  “Sixteen percent in sixty days.” Those facts I know like the back of my hand.

  If smug were a Mrs. Potato Head expression, I basically just plugged it into Amy’s face. “So now, you want to reach a new demographic. That needs different strategies. Now, say the lines and smile like the hot chunk of cuteness you know you are, get all the guys wanting to be you and all the women wanting to screw you, and then you can be a good Boy Scout and take their money for life insurance.”

  My face contorts in disgust.

  She’s not wrong, but she makes what I do and who I am sound so sleazy. The truth is, I really do help people set up their estates, including their life insurance needs, so they can take care of their families after they die. It’s not scammy in the slightest, and I’m proud of what I do, especially since I’m damn good at it.