She scoffs, waving a hand airily. “I’m fine.” But that hand goes to her head, smoothing the dark hair back into her low bun and checking for any tender spots. I watch closely, but as soon as she realizes she has an audience, her hand drops instantly. But the truth is, I’m not checking her for injuries . . . well, not totally.

She’s stunning. Even as discombobulated as she is, her creamy skin, coal-black hair, and pale blue eyes all emphasize a face that is truly one of the most perfectly formed faces I’ve ever seen. She’s a model of utter symmetry, that so-called ‘golden ratio’ that I remember reading about in an article once that tried to scientifically ‘explain’ beauty.

Seeing it in person, though, I’m struck by the fact that scientists might be able to explain it, but beauty like this can only be beheld to be truly appreciated and understood. And that understanding is far, far beyond the numbers, statistics, and ratios I live and breathe.

“Do you know who you are? Where you are? What happened?” I finally ask, just to have something to say.

She stares at me with an otherworldly vacant look, and I feel it down to my soul, piercing and sharp. “Oh, my God, no. Who am I? Who are you? Are you my husband? Is this one of those candid camera prank shows gone wrong?” She gazes blankly at the steering wheel and whispers to herself, “What happened?”

My guts churn, and I recoil, desperate to help this woman. “Shit. Hang on, let me call you an ambulance, ma’am.” I fumble my phone, dropping it to the concrete. “Fuck!”

I curse at the same time the woman gasps in horror. “Oh, no! Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. I’m sorry.”

“What?” Thankfully, my phone’s not broken when I pick it up, but the woman’s brows are now knit together and her eyes are clear. She was fucking with me. No matter how beautiful, that’s not cool. “Seriously? I thought you’d lost your damn mind!”

She shrugs, her lips twitching at the corners. “That only works if you have one to begin with.”

“Huh?”

She’s got me spinning, and I haven’t decided if it’s fun like a tilt-a-whirl or awful like being strapped to a helicopter rotor while it revs up to chopping-off-your-head speed. The verdict is still out.

“Sorry, you looked so earnest,” she says finally, smiling a little more. “I couldn’t help it. Really, I’m okay. Just horrified and sorry.”