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Summer was about to argue that she preferred betas to alphas and that ear play wasn’t a real thing, when something out the window caught her eye. “What the hell!”
“It’s just an opinion,” Cleo said, but Summer wasn’t listening.
Because there, sitting innocently on the main strip of road that went through the heart of Ridgefield, parked between The Codfather and Thai Titanic and directly in front of the soon-to-open BookLand, sat her 1955 Sunbeam Alpine Mark III replica—that was a dead ringer for the car Cary Grant and Grace Kelly had driven inTo Catch a Thief, and was the car she and her dad had built from the engine up—about to be accosted by a dirty yellow tow truck. And next to the curb, holding a coffee-to-go, was Satan’s younger brother.
“Oh no you don’t!” Summer dropped the stack of books she was holding and made a mad dash out the door and across the street, the bell jingling angrily behind her as the door slammed. She arrived just as Merle, of Merle’s Tow & Tune-up, was attaching the winch to her baby’s bumper. “What the hell is going on?”
Merle lifted his trucker’s hat to swipe the sweat from his forehead, and replaced it before talking. “I’m really sorry, Miss Russo, but when I get a call, I have to come.”
“Who called?”
“That would be me.” Wes’s usual frown was replaced by a tummy-flipping grin. Stupid tummy. “Seems parking in a green zone for more than the allotted time is a violation in this country.”
“This is not a green zone.” Summer stormed around the car and—
“What the hell?” she found herself repeating. The curb was painted a fresh, shiny, parakeet green. She looked at Merle. “It wasn’t like this when I parked here.”
“My guys finished it, oh, about”—Wes looked at his watch, which probably cost more than her 1955 Sunbeam Alpine Series III replica—“twenty-one minutes ago.” His voice was steady, not a hint of smartass, but Summer could see that behind those luxury-brand sunglasses his eyes were crinkling at the corners, fully aware that he was pushing every button she possessed. And enjoying it.
Refusing to give him the pleasure of seeing her squirm, she turned her attention to Merle, who was fiddling with the winch. “Then how did you get here so quickly?”
“As a concerned citizen, I called the police the moment I learned of the twenty-minute zone rule,” Wes said. “I explained that a car had been illegally parked in front of my store by someone who seemed like a rule breaker. They sent Merle.”
Merle remained mute on the topic.
“Merle, you make one more move with that hook and I will stop selling erotica to your wife,” Summer said.
Merle paled, then immediately started unhooking her car. “Sorry, man. But my sex life depends on those books. They were the inspiration behind all three of my kids.”
Summer crossed her arms, victorious. “Well, I guess that settles that.”
“It settles one topic of conversation,” Wes said, his smile obnoxiously self-satisfied.
Just like the other night, a bad feeling settled inside her belly. He looked like he was high-fiving himself. As if he’d already won the next battle. Too bad for him—she knew everyone in this neighborhood, and they were as loyal as they were nosy. They would have Summer’s back over his any day of the week.
“Turns out those little online-purchaseCUSTOMER PARKING ONLYsigns of yours are nothing more than decoration.”
Oh god, he knew, and now she was one step closer to going under.
“According to the planning commission, only two spots are designated for your shop. The rest are public parking, so starting tomorrow my crew will be parking there.”
“You have a gigantic, brand-spanking new parking lot on the other side of the building.”
“Which is for customers only. My crew aren’t customers. Therefore, I have suggested that they park here. In this very public lot.”
“I’ll sue!”
“Love, I have a team of lawyers that can get me out of anything, and they will shred you.”
“You jerk!” she exploded. “That whole nice-guy act about offering to pay for the spots was a part of your plan all along.”
He stepped off the curb and into her space. He was so tall she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. She’d never felt so petite or turned on in her entire life.
He was dressed in black slacks, a blue button-up which, annoyingly, she knew matched his eyes. The shirt was starched, the slacks Italian wool, and the expression dialed to “prepare your battleships.” He looked like a corporate raider ready to put the poor little shopgirl’s head on a pike.
“If you remember correctly, I did offer you reparation.”
“Reparation? Who even uses that word?”