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I heard the brakes squeal as I nosed the rented Jeep Wrangler away from the shoulder, clipping the rear tire of the cyclist with the edge of my bumper. There was the dull,nauseating sound of a body hitting my hood. A scream from a second cyclist who narrowly avoided the collision.

And that was how I almost killed Dillon Sinclair.

I guessalmost killedis a touch of exaggeration. But hey, I’m an actress, over-the-top is my life.

In reality, Dillon was up on her feet, cussing at me before I’d even managed to open my door. But I didn’t know that yet. For the second time that evening, my soul levitated out of my body and left my heart a slamming, lurching mess. Only, unlike its earlier cardiovascular circus after hanging up with Aaron, this time, there was no jubilation to its acrobatics. I was frozen in terror. Frozen with my hand on the plastic door handle, shaking from head to toe.

I’d just hit someone on the Road to Hana. I’d just fucking run over someone on the best night of my life.

“Open your Goddamn door, ya wanker!”

This was not the cyclist I had hit. This was the second rider, a tall, wiry, furious man. In my state of shock, I could hardly comprehend his words through the rage of his English accent.

“I—I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” It was all I could think to say.

He yanked open the door and I automatically began to stagger out, before realizing I hadn’t put the Jeep in park.

Idiot.I ground the shifter toPand slithered out of the driver’s seat, my legs shaking so hard they nearly gave out beneath me. I glanced around, expecting to see a bloody hump in the street in the dark.

But no, the person I’d hit—it was a woman, I discovered—was standing beside the shadowed frame of her mangled bike, cursing a hailstorm of insults that stung with each staccato word. She, too, had an accent, though it was more subtle. I wasn’t certain where to place it, and at the time, her origin of nationality was the least of my considerations.

The cyclist was silhouetted in the headlamp of the Jeep, the tight skins of her riding gear frayed from hip to elbow, covered in road rash glistening the same color as the flashing taillight from her damaged rear wheel. She cussed again before looking up at me, a trickle of blood dribbling down her lip to her chin.

But—holy hell—she wasalive. Thank God for the smallest of favors.

“I’m so sorry.” I didn’t ask if she was okay. I’d just hit her and flung her over the hood of my SUV. The question seemed banal. “I didn’t see you on the turn.”

“Then your damned eyes weren’t on the road.” She spit a mouthful of blood and wiped at the gravel embedded in her forearm, the hard line of her jaw clenching with pain. “Fuck,” she spit again, but this was directed at the ruin of her bike. “Just fuck!”

I stood transfixed with a thousand-yard stare, my brain abandoning me completely. I didn’t know the protocol for this situation. I’d never had so much as a parking ticket. Did I call the cops? Did we exchange insurance information? Was I going to jail? There was nofake it ’til you make iton this one.

“I’ll buy you a new bike.”

Why did the stupidest things come out of my mouth at the worst times?

She looked up at me as if I’d spoken gibberish. Before she could say anything, her riding partner laughed—a bitter, angry bark of a sound that turned my legs from unsteady to positively unstable.

“You couldn’t afford to replace her bar tape, ya bloody muppet! That bike costs more than your car. Do you know who the fuck she is?!”

Why my first response was to bristle at the question, to grow defensive, I have no clue. It wasn’t like I was in any position to pull the good ol’but do you know whoIam?I mean, come on, Iwasn’t exactly Margot Robbie. And somehow,do you know who I amgoingto belost some of its weighted impact. Besides—I’d just run the woman over. It didn’t matter who I was.

“No.” I said instead. Was it pertinent? Was running over Lance Armstrong worse than running over the Weekend Warrior out for their Sunday spin?

“You just hit Dillon Fucking Sinclair, ya knob!”

If he expected the revelation to strike fear in my heart, I’m afraid he was bound to be woefully disappointed. The name meant nothing to me.

“Should I call an ambulance?” It finally dawned on me that was probably the first thing I should have offered.

The woman’s head snapped up, her eyes silver in the headlights. “You think they’re going to fix my bike?”

There was such a loathing level of sarcasm behind the question, such disgusted disdain, I felt my cheeks color. I felt like a child, standing there, uncertain what to say. To do. This wasn’t something that could easily disappear. Not like the way Dani’s dad’s wallet had vanished those photos from her 21stbirthday.

At least I wasn’t drunk. And she wasn’t dead. But what did it matter? When the press got a hold of it, they’d have a field day. No one would care that it had just been an accident. Hollywood was always at fault in these situations.

I swallowed. I wanted to call Dani—she’d know what to do. But it was her wedding night. No way in hell was I calling her. Besides:Throw money at it. That’s all she’d say. That’s what she’d done her whole life. It was her solution to everything. Cash made anything bad go away. But you had to have enough cash to do that. And my last name wasn’t Hallwell.

“Can I give you a ride?”