My Mistake (Stories of Serendipity #7) (30 page)

Suddenly, Renae was being shoved off the man, by hands she didn’t see. The man sat up, ripping off his helmet, dropping it to the ground.

“What the fuck!?”

Speechless, she could only stare as dark eyes mesmerized her, settling on Renae. “Did you hit me?”

She nodded, gulping down embarrassment. “I’m sorry…I—” Renae wasn’t sure what she was sorry about, her intimacy with an unconscious stranger, or making him unconscious in the first place.

“You weren’t texting were you?” His anger was palpable, and Renae couldn’t blame him. He could have been killed. Strong, thick hands fisted at his sides.

She shook her head slowly, seeing him for the first time. He was gorgeous, and suddenly all words in her defense completely left her. If she had killed this guy, women the world over would hate her forever.

His short dark hair stuck up wildly with sweat, helmet head, she supposed, but it was sexy. There were slight streaks of silver at his temples, that shone in the sunlight. His face was rugged, in a weathered, sun-kissed way, a nose that had been broken, with a scar running down his left temple. But it was an undeniably handsome face with chiseled features and impossibly blue eyes. His jeans had been ripped in the wreck, and Renae tried not to stare at the top of his thigh that peaked through the mangled denim.

“Are you okay?” She managed to squeak out, feeling terrible about everything.

“Where’s my bike?”

Renae looked around, not having a clue. She’d never even thought about the bike, as concerned as she had been about the man. Eventually, she went back to the other side of her minivan and found it laying on its side. She bent down, grabbing the handle bars, and heaved, unable to budge the metal.

“I got it,” he growled behind her. He reached down and righted the machine, straddling it. His helmet dangled from his hand before he crammed it back on his head.

“Wait…” She turned to the minivan and rummaged around in her purse, spilling the contents into the floorboard until she found what she was looking for. Holding out her insurance card, she said, “Here. If you need anything done, I should be covered. All the information is here….I’ve got another copy at home.” She felt completely inadequate in this situation. He seemed angry at her, and she couldn’t blame him. His body language radiated irritation, from the squared set of his shoulders to the grip on the handlebars, to his tense thigh muscle peeking out through his torn jeans. And his face…She swallowed disappointment that the stern set of his mouth and the crinkled brow was annoyance with her stupidity. Renae felt undeniably guilty for not paying enough attention, for hitting him. If he was hurt, she’d die. And she didn’t even know him.

Without a word, his hand slowly reached for the card, clasping it in his fingers. He didn’t look at it, as he slipped inside his coat pocket before turning back to his bike.

Renae stifled the overwhelming surge of hormones that rushed through her body. Every cell inside her wanted to straddle the motorcycle behind him, and hang on to his rippling torso. She exhaled sharply, as he jumped twice before starting the roaring motorcycle.

“Are you okay?” She had to yell to be heard over the engine.

The man didn’t respond, just looked at her with those blue eyes, snapped down his visor, and with a roar, continued down the road she’d been turning onto an eon ago.

Renae heaved a sigh, relieved she hadn’t killed him, yet disappointed somehow, and got into her van to continue home. Alone.

Anne Conley is a former high school teacher, who took some time off to raise goats and children. Living in a rural Texas town has taught her that life won't come to her, she's got to grab what she can get. So, she started writing for public consumption. She lives in a rural East Texas town with her husband, two children, and currently 44 goats. She is writing two series: the Stories of Serendipity, about life and love in a small town, and the Four Winds, about God's archangels "falling" in love. Check out her blog, 
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