13
PAIGE
Fletcher filled the driver’s side of the car as he leaned over me, biceps bulging an inch from my nose.
“Let’s put the parking brake on, all right?”
“Yes,” I whispered. What else could I say?
My cheeks burned with shame. I’d always been a klutz, but these past six months, it was as if I’d supercharged my clumsiness. And now I’d come to speak with the woman who’d gone out of her way to help me—without even knowing me—and I’d driven into her car.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Are you okay?”
“Just mortally embarrassed.” I couldn’t even face him. “How bad is the damage?”
“Nothing serious.”
“Did you even look?”
“There’s no need. If you’re okay, then it’s nothing serious.”
“But Emmy’s car…”
“I’m not real tight with Emmy, but from what I’ve heard, she can afford a new bumper.”
Fletcher
