“Kaylee Harrison! Where the hell are you?! Why aren't you here yet?! Do you even know what professionalism means for a journalist? I swear, if I miss this scoop because of you, I’ll make sure you regret it,” Victor Kane growled low over the phone.
“Almost there, speeding up,” Kaylee answered through clenched teeth, forcing a fake laugh.
But she was fuming inside: Professional, my ass. Who forgets to charge their camera on a shoot? Let’s be real—calling him a reporter is generous. He’s a tabloid hound, plain and simple.
It was the weekend, for crying out loud! She’d just pulled an all-nighter without a minute of sleep. She finally laid down when it was still dark out, and not two seconds later, this jerk called her up to drive an hour just to bring him a battery—and he still had the nerve to bitch nonstop.
“Hurry it up already! Are you at the beach yet? I must’ve broken a mirror or something to end up with an assistant like you!” Victor kept ranting on the other end. “Step on it! Have you never used a gas pedal, genius?! Move!”
Kaylee was practically shaking with rage, pretending the gas pedal was Victor’s face and flooring it hard.
The sky was barely light—still that dusky blue before sunrise. The road was empty, nothing but a long stretch ahead.
Kaylee’s head throbbed from exhaustion, and Victor's idiot voice just kept yammering in her ear.
She wasn't even fully focused when, out of nowhere, someone staggered out from the bushes onto the road.
By the time her brain caught up, it was far too late to brake.
With a loud bang, the car hit the man and dragged slightly before finally screeching to a stop.
For several long seconds, Kaylee’s mind went blank. Victor’s yelling faded to nothing as she threw the door open and rushed out.
Lightning might as well have struck her—she’d hit someone.
She stood frozen, staring at the man lying in front of her car—a complete mess, bloody, clothes in tatters.
Kaylee was stunned. Her old little car did that? Really?
Victor was still yelling from the phone, voice getting louder from the lack of response: “Kaylee Harrison! Are you dead or what?! Say something!”
That snapped her back. She threw herself back into the car, hung up on him, and with trembling hands, called an ambulance.
After the call, she stumbled back out. The man on the ground had his eyes shut tight, scrapes and cuts all over, blood oozing from his arms, his leg, even his head.
Kaylee’s hands shook as she bent down, voice wavering. She gently poked at his shoulder with a fingertip. “Hey... mister? Are you still... alive? I-I didn't mean to, I swear.”
“...”
No answer.
Oh my god, is he... dead?
How many years in prison do you get for this?!
She collapsed into a crouch next to him, sobbing uncontrollably. This was all Victor’s fault. Pushing her to speed up nonstop—well, congrats, now she’d sped herself straight into jail.
Terrified, she sucked in a breath, reached toward the man’s nose to check for breathing.
Before her fingers even got close, his eyes shot open—intense and icy sharp, locking right onto her. Kaylee shrieked and fell backward onto the ground like she got electrocuted.
“Y-you're alive! Oh my god, thank god!”
Glen Frost’s eyes scanned past her, then back again, cold and unreadable. “You hit me. That means you’re responsible.”
Kaylee nodded like it was the only thing she knew how to do. Her face, delicate and gorgeous, was full of guilt and sincerity. “Yes, of course, I'm responsible. I called an ambulance already. You're gonna be okay, just hang in there.”
Glen gave her a slow once-over, and then, completely deadpan, said, “Take off your clothes.”
“…What?”
