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Probably the latter and for some reason, it irked the hell out of me.
“You know, it was technically your fault too,” he said. “But considering your car’s the only one with actual damage, I’ll help you out.”
There was a jab in there somewhere, as if my Toyota Corolla deserved pity in comparison to his expensive GLS.Ugh. I was practically fuming. If I were a kettle, steam would be billowing out of my ears, ready to blow the lid off.
“Let me get my business card.” He walked back to his car, and I forced myself to look at the sloping landscape to my right instead of studying his walk. The walk of a man who got what he wanted: casual, confident, and arrogant.
When he returned, he held out the card. “Here.”
“Great,” I said, snatching it out of his grip before I stuffed it in my pocket. I didn’t bother to check the name. If I did, I’d spend the next few minutes repeating it on a loop, when I should be focusing on conjuring up an excuse for Vicki.Sorry boss, I was nearly decapitated but don’t worry, I won’t disappoint you this weekend.
“I’ll be in touch.” Without waiting to hear the man’s retort, I swiveled back to my car and slammed the door shut behind me.
Just great. Five years of driving this car and not a single accident. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was a cosmic force trying to send me a message:Go home, Sophie.
When I peeled the car off the side of the road, the Mercedes followed, but at a more respectful distance. I took a left and carried up along a winding road with olive trees manning the sides. Rows and rows of vineyards meandered like streams through the rippling hills beyond. A fork showed up ahead, the left directing toward Napa Lodge, and the other toward a wine-tasting room.
“Are you fricking kidding me?” I muttered under my breath, glancing back through the rearview mirror. The Mercedes, with barely even a scratch on it, followed me left. Of course, the manwas going to the same seminar I was. Life could be so viciously cruel.
I jerked my head back to the brick road, and by the time I parked, my traps were as taut as guitar strings. Rubbing at the muscles, I climbed out of the car at the same time he did.
“I can have a look at your neck for you,” he offered, although I didn’t quite believe he did it out of the goodness of his heart.
“No thank you,” I muttered dryly. “I can assess my own neck.”
“Your loss,” he said, and took the lead to the entrance.
The lodge itself was huge, its structure reflecting the wine valley. Honey-colored stone was accented by weathered timber beams and terracotta roof tiles. Ivy grew along one side of the building, and to my right was a huge garden, with a pergola draped in grapevines standing in the center.
“Ladies first,” said the man when he arrived at the door. He pulled it open and waited for me to walk through first—at least he had manners. Or maybe he was just checking out my ass.
Not that I had any time to consider the latter. I was far too aware of his aftershave. Crisp and clean, like dew still clinging to the blades of grass early in the morning.
Nice. Too nice.
Inside, arched windows lined one side of the reception area, and on the wall behind the receptionist was a painting of the Napa Valley—rich, blooming vineyards stretching out as far as the eye could see.
“Can I have your name please?” asked the receptionist.
“Sophie Manning,” I said, well aware that the man who had crashed into me a few minutes ago was standing a mere two feet away.
He shifted his weight from side to side, looked at his watch twice, and made a clicking sound with his tongue. I very nearlytold him to back up when he ambled off to the other side of the vast room, glaring up at another painting of the Napa Valley.
“My boss called yesterday,” I said, glad for the space. “She unfortunately can’t make it and sent me in her place.”
The receptionist smiled, her teeth white and shiny and straight. “She did. We’ve made all the arrangements. You’re all set for the weekend. When entering the first talk, you can get your name badge at the table by the door.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, then stepped back at the same moment the man spun on his heel and wandered back to the reception desk. When he passed me, I put on the best fake smile I could muster. “Well, I hope we don’t see each other much over the weekend.”
“As do I,” he grunted, his eyes unblinking as they bore into mine.
I looked away first and, when I turned to fetch my bags, I heard him introduce himself to the receptionist. “Dr. Alex Roberts. Orthopedic surgeon.”
Great.
An ortho god—Shonda Rhimes knew exactly what she was doing when she coined that term. Dr. Alex Roberts not only looked like a Grecian god but acted like one too. That chip on his shoulder must be awfully heavy.
CHAPTER 2
