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I’m honestly not even that shocked, but if I were, the sway of her hips in those jeans would definitely snap me out of it.
She returns with her insurance information and thrusts it toward my chest.
“Just take a picture of it; it’s the only copy I have right now.” She says, and it’s obvious that she’s already fed up with this entire ordeal.
That makes two of us, Princess.
I pull my phone out and snap a picture before handing it back to her, then reach inside and grab a copy of my own insurance.
“Keep it, I have plenty,” I smile sardonically.
“Oh, you do this often, do you?” she quips.
“Actually, it’s called being an adult. I guess you’ll find that out in a few years.” Rolling my eyes, I take a step backward, putting some space between us. This chick looks like she wants to stab me right now. Can’t say I wouldn’t feel the same way if the roles were reversed. Not that I’d admit that to her.
“You must find yourself so hilarious,” she scowls, disgust rolling off of her in waves. That’s definitely not the reaction I’m used to getting from women.
“On a good day, yes.” The leering expression on my face tells her exactly what I think of her little attitude.
The unamused glare she’s directing at me right now makes me want to laugh, but I hold fast and match her expression.
“I’m twenty-one, asshole.”
“Such a dirty mouth, Princess. I do have a name, you know.”
“I’m aware,” she deadpans, not caring.
“So, use it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and return to my position against the side of my car. Pulling up the picture I just took, I look over the details.
Keaton King… eh, I was close. Lives on Bayview. That’s in midtown, only a few streets from the north side, if I remember correctly.
Why is she racing all the way over here, then?
Wait… I thought this was her brother’s car.
“So, is your brother going to be pissed about his car?” I ask, hoping that she may inadvertently answer my question.
“No.”
“No?”
“No… it’s not like he’s going to find out,” she says dismissively.
She clenches her jaw and stares off past the metal risers beside us. A light breeze whispers past us and Keaton crosses her arms tightly over her chest. The short-sleeved shirt she’s wearing won’t do much to fight off the incoming chill, and I momentarily think of offering her my jacket. But she called me an asshole, and I’d hate to ruin her winning impression of me so soon.
“How is he not going to notice a huge dent in the side of his car?”
“I thought you said it wasn’t that bad?” she says, sarcasm rolling off her.
“It’s not, but you know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Jesus, woman. Do you ever not argue?” I exclaim, throwing my hands up in frustration.
