Clara Bennett
“Start, damn you,” I hissed, turning the key again. The engine made a weak grinding sound, then nothing. A thin trail of smoke rose from under the hood of my old car in the nearly empty company parking lot.
I sat there gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white. The clock on the dashboard read 6:17 PM. The gala started at 8. I still needed to shower, fix my hair, and find something decent to wear.
I let out a frustrated breath and grabbed my bag from the passenger seat. No way was I calling Ryder.
He had already done too much today .... the dress, the coffee, the way he kept checking on me. I wasn’t going to add my broken-down car to his list.
I locked the doors and walked briskly toward the main street, my heels clicking against the pavement.
A yellow taxi turned
