He was gripping the woman's shoulders, scanning her up and down.
Curtis Fox was famous in his circle for being unshakable. In negotiations that could make or break his company, the man didn't break a sweat.
I had never seen him this frantic.
Once he confirmed she was unhurt, he wheeled on me.
"What the hell kind of parking job is that."
My car was stationary. The engine wasn't even on.
His eyes met mine, and something flickered across his face. A flash of guilt, gone as quickly as it appeared.
The woman shrank to one side, voice small.
"I'm sorry, it was my fault. I wasn't paying attention on the bike..."
Curtis's tone melted instantly.
"It's not your fault. She parked in a bad spot. Where did you get hurt?"
The woman hesitated, then held out her right hand. A small patch of skin had been scraped off her palm.
Curtis's brow furrowed. He cupped her hand and blew gently on the wound.
Her eyes reddened. She tried to pull away.
"It's really nothing..."
A warm spring breeze drifted through the cemetery, but I felt cold down to my bones.
"Don't blame yourself. The scratch on the car is nothing—insurance will cover it. No need to apologize."
He finally spared me a glance.