Conflicting Hearts

by J. D. Burrows

  “I guess I should call for a tow.”

  “Please, let me,” he says. He flips out his cell phone, does a quick contact search, and hits speed dial. The next I know he’s summoned a tow truck to haul my car off the freeway and tells the guy to charge his account.

  “Someone will be here within the next half hour, if they can squeeze through traffic,” he confidently states.

  “Wow, that’s really nice of you, but I do have towing coverage through my insurance,” I tell him, digging through my wallet looking for the card again.

  “It’s on me,” he insists.

  He seems determined, so I forgo the search. “What about your car?”

  “Hum, well, let me see,” he says, walking over to the back end. He plants his feet at a wide stance and examines the damage for a few moments. “It should be drivable to the repair shop,” he says, after stooping down and peeking under the bumper. He stands upright, pushes open the crunched trunk and then leans over fishing around for something inside. The next I know, he’s sporting a roll of duct tape in his hand.

  “The cure for the world,” he notes, as he rips a long strip off and begins wrapping his bumper. After a couple of minutes unrolling and tearing tape, he has the bumper secured, as well as his trunk.

  “Well, that should hold,” he announces with pride.

  Impressive. I stare at him and secretly gush. I’ve run into a stud on wheels. As my tongue hangs out of my mouth, I hear the tow truck pull up behind my car. He guns the monster truck once, turns it off and then opens the door. A man in a dirty white shirt and blue jeans wobbles toward me. He walks over, scratching the unruly hair on his head and surveys the damage to my hood.

  “Where to, ma’am?” He sounds as if he has a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

  “Where to what?” I sound like a dumb blonde.

  “Where do you want me to tow it?”

  My mind draws a blank. I don’t know where to tow it. Should I have it dragged back to my apartment? It’s not like I have a list of body shops in my head.

  “I…I’m not sure,” I answer with a befuddled look on my face.

  “Look, lady,” he says, exasperated. “I can either tow it to the yard and you can pay storage fees or I can tow it—”

  “Tow it to Johnson’s Auto Body on Canyon Road,” the attorney pipes up. “That’s near the lady’s home and should be a convenient location. They’re reputable and should do a proper job.”

  “Fine with me,” he says, walking back to his truck. He starts fiddling with chains and gears, and whatever they do to haul cars away.

  I turn and look at Mr. Richards, grateful for his help. “I feel like the proverbial helpless woman. I’m not really.” I lie through my bashful smile. With a gentle, comforting tone, he puts me at ease.

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Hayward. Automobile accidents have a tendency to leave us in a bit of a haze.”

  “You coming with me, ma’am?”

  The driver is now scratching his beer belly and looking at me. Does the man have bugs? The idea of sitting next to him from here to the body shop does not appeal whatsoever. My nose wrinkles.

  “I’ll take her,” Mr. Nice Guy offers.

  “What?” I brandish a startled glance and look into his dark eyes, which scare me a bit.

  “It’s your birthday. Hey, it’s the least I can do.” His smile sends me vibes.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” I promptly answer, horrified over the thought of sitting in his car next to him. The chance he’s a serial killer still exists. He did brandish a roll of duct tape.

  “Surely, I must be keeping you from work,” I remind him.

  “Is this keeping you from work?” He furrows his brow.

  I glance at my watch mortified over the time. “Oh, God, I’m late for a meeting now.”

  “Were you on your way downtown?”

  “Yes, Second and Main.”

  “Well, that’s three blocks from my firm’s office.”

  “But what about my car?” I glance over at the tow truck driver, who now looks peeved over my conversational exchange with the law man.

  “He can drop off your car, and you can phone the body shop when you get to work and make arrangements for repairs. Would that be convenient?”

  He’s undeniably eager to convince me to come with him. I see in his eyes a distinct kindness, and foolishly I want to relent. Mr. Richards is jingling the keys in his hand; the tow truck driver is glowering at me as he waits for my answer.

  Rationally, I try to think this out. He does have a business card, so maybe he is legit. I weigh my chances looking back and forth at two strangers, who both could rape and strangle me at a moment’s notice. If I have to die, I chose the clean-cut attorney to do me in.

  “All right then.”

  A winning smile curls his lips. He walks to his car and opens the door for me. I can’t remember the last time anyone bothered. For a brief moment, I glance at him, and like an obedient little girl, I crawl inside. He gently closes the door and waits for traffic to clear before jumping in the driver’s seat. A car whooshes by his side.

  “I wouldn’t advise that tactic,” he says, putting the key into the ignition.

  Quickly, I snatch the seatbelt and buckle myself into his snazzy car. A moment later we’re back in traffic, and I’m riding in the cockpit of a roadster probably worth over fifty grand. I glance over my shoulder and see my car worth twenty-four hundred that is being pulled up on the tow truck bed. The poor thing needs a hug, and so do I.

  “I’m ashamed,” I admit aloud. “I’m taking advantage of your kindness, and you should be mad at me.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?” He glances over at me with a surprised look upon his face. “It was just an accident. They happen.”

  “A stupid one on my part. I should have been looking where I was going.”

  “Perhaps, but frankly I think it might be a fated occurrence.”

  Huh, fated? What’s that supposed to mean? I glare at him over his bizarre comment. A grin, which looks far too mischievous, spreads across his face. Now I’m really uneasy.

  “So where do you work? What’s at Second and Main?” he suddenly asks.

  I feel uncomfortable over the question, but answer anyway. “Ah, Kennedy Advertising Agency.”

  “I’m impressed,” he says. “That’s a large and prestigious organization. What do you do there?”

  He’s impressed? Wait until he hears of my stellar career. “Administrative Assistant,” I mumble under my breath, feeling like the extremely dumb secretary that I am. He’s probably a Harvard law graduate, and I’m a high school graduate—the vast difference between us looms like the Grand Canyon.

  “Frankly, I don’t know what I’d do without my assistant,” he sincerely expresses. “I’d be lost. Admirable job that doesn’t get enough credit.”

  I’m in a car with a freak, or he’s pulling my leg to make an impression. I’ve worked at a law firm before and know the pecking level. An assistant is at the bottom of the scum pile, and there is no fraternizing between the attorneys and staff.

  The traffic crawls down the freeway, and I’m wondering how long I’ll be in the car with Mr. Perfect sitting next to me on my left. I look out the window, and for a minute get lost in my thoughts. Hopefully, he’s a decent driver, because I feel as if I have no control over my destiny when I’m not behind the steering wheel. Of course, my ability to care for myself has suffered a tremendous blow this morning.

  “So, what are your plans to celebrate your birthday after work tonight?”

  His out-of-the-blue question catches me off guard. “Plans? I have no plans. It’s business as usual,” I nervously answer, clutching my purse.

  “And what’s business as usual, Rachel?”

  Oh, now we’re on a first name basis? I don’t like his prying. “Well, tonight, I’ll probably stop at a restaurant on the way home, get a high carb carryout dinner for comfort food, go home, hug my cat, and find some British so
ap opera series on cable.”

  “Not exactly what I would call a memorable birthday,” he swiftly responds in a critical tone. “Your thirtieth should be a milestone celebration. Don’t you have any friends that want to take you out for drinks or dinner?”

  “Not really. I have work acquaintances, but everyone has a life after five. I hate to intrude.” Being a fifth wheel is worse than being single and alone, but he probably doesn’t know that. He’s quiet for a moment and then comes back with his next question.

  “What about family?”

  Now, he’s annoying the hell out of me. I swing my head to the left and glance at him again. His eyes are narrowed as if he’s worried about me. Why does this stranger give a damn how I celebrate my birthday? With a tone of irritation, I give him a snappy answer.

  “I have no family, except a brother two thousand miles away who never keeps in touch. My parents are dead.”

  Swiftly, I look out the passenger window, stifling the urge to cry. I stick my fingertip between my teeth and start chewing on my nail. The freaking traffic won’t move fast enough so I can get out of the car. Finally, he takes the City Center exit and weaves through downtown to Main Street. I see my building approaching off to the right. The light turns red, so I quickly grab the opportunity.

  “This is fine. I can walk from here.”

  His car comes to a halt, and I grab the door handle and swing the escape hatch open next to the curb. I jump out as if I’m on fire, lower my head, and catch a glimpse of the astonishment on his face.

  “Thanks for the ride, and, again, I’m very sorry for the accident.”

  I gently close the door and walk quickly to the entrance of the building, duck inside, and heave a relieved breath after taking a ride with a complete stranger. My mother would have scolded me for sure. Sorry, I talk to her in my head as if she can hear me. But, God, he was adorable, Mom.

  Chapter 2

  A Surprise Invitation

  I take the elevator to the tenth floor thinking about which comfort food to stuff myself with when I get home tonight. Suddenly, I’m reminded I need a rental car. The first order of business is to call my insurance company and report the accident. Afterward, I need to check with the body shop and see if my clunker has been delivered.

  The elevator door opens, and I sprint to my desk. Oh, great, the usual “come get a donut to celebrate Rachel’s birthday” email has gone out department wide. Already, the pastry box on the corner of my desk is three quarters empty. Crumbs and powdered sugar are sprinkled everywhere on my desktop, and I’ve missed all the well-wishes. Whatever, like it matters, I inwardly gripe.

  Julie runs up to my desk. “Rachel, where have you been? Mr. Stewart is spitting mad you missed the meeting. He pulled in Kathy in from the Marketing Department to take the minutes.”

  “I got into an accident,” I moan, while shoving my purse into my bottom desk drawer.

  “Accident?” She brings her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh, what happened?”

  “I rear-ended some lawyer in a fancy sports car, if you can believe that. I guess I should be thankful it wasn’t a cop.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but my car isn’t. They had to tow it away.”

  “What a way to start your birthday,” she says, giving me a sorry look of empathy.

  I shrug my shoulders. “C’est la vie. It’s just another day as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Hey, Rachel, happy birthday.” Stephan, our mail clerk, rolls up the basket with the morning delivery. He picks up a donut and stuffs it into his mouth. “Hope you have a happy one.”

  I can barely understand him as he chews the tasty fried grease. I reach over, choose one of the leftover donuts, and shove the whole thing into my mouth too.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, anticipating the incoming sugar high. Before I can swallow the mass of dough stuck to my tongue, my boss is standing at my desk.

  “Where have you been?” He creases his bushy eyebrows together and scowls at me with his brown eyes.

  Julie, the coward, hastily retreats leaving me alone to fend for myself. As fast as I can, I push the pastry down my throat.

  “Accident,” I mutter. “I got in an accident.”

  “I thought you were caught in traffic last I heard.”

  “Well, yes, but afterward I got in an accident.”

  “Next time, call if you can’t make the meeting.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He returns to his office and closes the door without a happy birthday well-wish, or I hope you weren’t hurt comment. As usual, there goes another male that could give a damn. Creep. I give him the Rachel evil eye.

  I sit down at my desk, rev up my computer, and squeeze in a few quick calls to my insurance company. Apparently, I can’t get a rental until the morning, which means it’s public transportation to get home. I shudder at the thought of the stinky bus, two transfers, and the three-block walk from the bus stop in the dark. This is not going well, and I will have to skip my fancy takeout dinner on the way home. Looks like I’ll have to settle for delivered pizza.

  After that business, I immediately call the body shop and give them my insurance information. They want me to drop by and sign some papers before they start work, so another task I need to take care of first thing in the morning. I’m angry at myself for being so stupid and not watching where I was going! Now, I’m paying for it, like I always pay in life for all my dumb-ass mistakes.

  The day progresses, as usual, until three o’clock arrives when I get a phone call from the receptionist, Melanie, at the front desk.

  “There’s a delivery for you, Rachel.”

  “All right,” I acknowledge and hang up. Immediately, I figure it’s some package being couriered to my boss, which is the usual reason I get calls to come fetch. As I arrive at the reception desk, I see a large bouquet of red roses on the corner.

  “Wow, some lucky girl,” I say, gawking at the flowers. I peer over the reception counter looking for an envelope or package for my boss. Melanie looks at me cockeyed.

  “I would say so, they’re for you.”

  Rapidly, I stand up straight and drop my jaw. “You’ve got to be kidding me?” I squawk.

  She leans her elbows on the desk and sighs wistfully. “Looks as if you have a secret admirer.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” I quickly dismiss her conclusion. “Maybe my brother had a pang of guilt after twenty-five years of ignoring me.”

  The suspense is killing me, so I grab the card and open it. My heart leaps into my throat when I recognize the neat-freak’s handwriting.

  “Miss Hayward, no woman should spend her thirtieth birthday alone. Let me take you out for dinner and drinks after work to celebrate. If you refuse, you’ll be hearing from my personal injury attorney.”

  He signs it “Ian Richards” in impressive script and then adds RSVP and his phone number underneath.

  “Unbelievable,” I mumble, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Who sent them?” Melanie pries.

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  My hand grabs the bottom of the vase, which looks like crystal and not glass, and holds a dozen long-stemmed red roses, surrounded with baby’s breath and decorative ferns. The fragrance is overwhelming. I’m grinning like a fool from ear to ear, because I really can’t remember the last time I received roses from a man.

  Hopefully, my cat won’t eat these, I think to myself. I don’t keep live plants in the house for fear he will. As I’m heading back to my desk, I’m trying to think where I can put the flowers out of reach from Whiskers.

  As I walk into the cubicle world of my department, all the female heads follow me with their eyes. Julie jumps up from her chair and tags along behind me to my desk.

  “Gosh, pretty. Who sent those?”

  “My victim,” I say impassively, trying to hide my giddiness.

  “Victim?” She buries her nose in one of the blooms and inhales.

  “Y
es, the guy I rear-ended this morning.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “Wow, you must have made an impression on him.”

  I shake my head in doubt. “No, he’s just feeling sorry for me, because I started my birthday off on the wrong foot.” Purposely I fail to mention the dinner and drinks invitation, because she’ll give me advice if I do.

  The blooms look spectacular on the corner of my desk. I decide to leave them here at the office rather than take them home. At least I won’t worry about Whiskers overindulging on some toxic plant and me coming home to find him dead by the front door. I scrunch my nose over the thought, because I’m such a freaking worrywart about everything.

  It’s three-thirty, and five o’clock is fast approaching. He’s probably waiting for my phone call. After sliding open my bottom desk drawer, I fish my cell out of my purse. Discreetly, I take the gift card and walk over to a private employee lounge area, which is out of range of everyone’s hearing.

  My stomach flutters like a butterfly. I dial his number and notice I’ve pushed one of the numbers wrong. Damn, I’m so freaking nervous, my brain won’t work. I repeatedly blink a few times to get my vision squared away so I can see straight. Afterward, I try again and meticulously tap the numbers on my shiny cell phone screen. I bring the phone to my ear, hear it ring, and he immediately answers.

  “Ian Richards,” he says, upbeat and cheerful.

  The lump in my throat won’t let me say anything. A few seconds pass, and I hear him again.

  “Hello? Anybody there?”

  “It’s me,” I squeak out, sounding like a mouse.

  “Me who?” I hear a chuckle in his voice as if he already knows ‘me who.’

  “Rachel.” The pitch in my voice is still high.

  “Well, hello there,” he drawls in a relaxed tone. His voice reminds me of black velvet, and I see his handsome face in my mind and turn to putty.

  I draw in a breath and control myself. “Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Richards.”

  “You’re very welcome, Rachel. Are the roses to your liking?” He sounds so sweet and sincere.