Page 9 of Final Verdict
SCARLETT
Ican’t believe I got into the wrong effin' car…
Tonight is the cherry on top of a years-long shitty sundae—the final garnish adorning a series of poor life decisions I just can’t melt away.
“Since I’m not a real Uber driver, I need you to come sit in the front seat with me,” Mr. Generous says out of nowhere.
“No, that’s okay.” I shake my head. “I’m fine riding down here.”
The car suddenly jolts to a stop, and my body flies to the other side of the floor.
“Front seat,” he demands. “Now.”
“Ugh.” I sit up. “Fine.”
I tuck my purse under my arm and crawl over his center console, settling into the passenger seat.
“Happy now, sir?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Buckle your seatbelt.”
My breath catches as he turns and narrows his eyes at me, as I finally take in a view of his face.
My lips part before I can stop them, and my heart stumbles over its own reckless tempo.
This man's face is the definition of a wet fantasy. A sculptor's ultimate dream.
With his short, jet-black hair that's perfectly coiffed, his chiseled jawline that’s begging me to touch it, and his deep emerald eyes that are probably seeing right through me, he’s making every nerve in my body run wild without even trying.
If I'd caught a longer glimpse of this man before this moment, I would've known he was someone whose world could never possibly collide with mine. That fate could never be so cruel and kind at the same time.
“Do I need to give you instructions on how to buckle your seatbelt?” He interrupts my thoughts. “I can, if you need them.”
I click the buckle.
“Thank you.” He drives forward. “Now, what’s your address?”
“I need your first and last name before I give you that,” I say to him. “We need to establish a level of trust in this relationship.”
“I’m only going to know you for thirty more minutes of my life—at most.” He runs through a yellow light. “We don’t have a relationship…”
“I’ll go first since you clearly have no idea how to make small talk.” I clear my throat. “My name is Olive, like the vegetable.”
“Olives are considered a fruit.”
“They’re alsovegetables.” I refuse to believe he’s this difficult. “That’s why they’re always next to the pickles in the grocery store.”
“Pickles are also, technically,fruits.” His lips curve into a slow smile. “They grow from flowers and have seeds…just like olives.”
“Are you normally this antagonistic to everyone you meet?” I look at him. “Or did I burn you somehow?”
“You broke into my car and demanded that I drive you to lower Manhattan—which is far away from where I was originally heading.” He looks right back at me. “Surely you don’t think I should be ecstatic about that.”
He has a point. “You could at least be cordial with me for this ride, though. I gave you my real name.”
“The lanyard you took off says your name is Scarlett.” He serves me a smirk under a red light, and my cheeks heat.
“My name is Jameson,” he offers. “Feel free to give me your address.”
