Sea Glass Sunrise

by Donna Kauffman

  Maybe he had, she thought, a little dazedly. She felt like she’d been visually frisking him.

  The late-afternoon sun backlit his hunky, decidedly masculine frame, casting his face and those thickly lashed eyes in shadow. Her gaze drifted to his hands again as she remembered how they’d felt, keeping her steady in those first moments after the crash. He looked like the perfect guy. All gorgeous, courteous, manly-man rescuer of damsels in distress.

  She felt a hot rush of attraction zip right through her recently traumatized system. And by trauma, she didn’t mean the car crash. She blamed it on that, though, all the same. All that adrenaline and pain, making her a little light-headed. Had to be it. Otherwise she was quite certain she’d have looked at him and felt nothing. Because not only had she sworn off men in general, she’d sworn off men who made her girl parts tingle very specifically.

  One thing was certain. Looks were deceiving. Because there were no perfect men. “Just perfect idiots,” she muttered, lifting her hand from the wheel, as if taking an oath. “Yes, your honor, guilty as charged. No need for a trial. The evidence is overwhelming.” She looked at him again . . . and, yep, definite tingles. Book me, lock me up, and throw away the key, judge. Because that’s apparently the only way I’m going to save me from myself.

  Calder Blue wasn’t sure if the woman still strapped in the driver’s seat of the banged-up Audi was waving at him or blocking the sun from her eyes, but he didn’t wave back. He also didn’t take his eyes off her, though he couldn’t have said exactly why.

  She wasn’t his type. On first glance, she was all money and status and high maintenance wrapped up in the veneer of fierce independence. She hadn’t wasted any time making sure he knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, despite glaring evidence to the contrary. In his experience, women like that always ended up being the clingiest, the neediest, though they’d deny it to their dying breath. They shoved that fierce independence front and center like a thick, impenetrable wall, then all but begged a man to batter his way through it. In reality, that wall would always turn out to be a thin, barely held together smokescreen designed to hide things like deep-seated insecurity, massive self-doubt, and low self-esteem. When that wobbly facade came tumbling down—and it always did—the real-world light would then shine into all those hidden neurotic nooks and crannies.

  Give him a down-to-earth, capable woman who didn’t waste time labeling things or shoving anything in anyone’s face, but simply took care of business because that was how the world turned, offering a hand when she could, taking a hand when she needed one. A smile, a wave of thanks, or you’re welcome was all that was needed. No endless analysis of every little thing. Not giving a damn what anyone else thought of her. That, to him, was true independence.

  And yet, he didn’t look away. From the once-shiny car, or the tailored clothes and tasteful, understated jewelry she wore. Her sleek, dark hair was pulled neatly back in an expensive-looking gold clasp. Hair that hadn’t dared get even a little mussed up despite an exploding air bag. Her face . . . well, for the moment, that was a different story. It was going to be a little tender for a while. He didn’t think her nose was broken, just lacerated, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she was sporting a pair of shiners by this time tomorrow. Even with the cut to the bridge of her nose, the partly swollen lip, and the slightly wild look in those dark blue eyes of hers, she was an elegant, cool beauty. A stunner, actually, in every sense of the word. Lord only knows the issues you’ve got, sweetheart, but I bet most men wouldn’t think twice before trying to breach your walls.

  Given the way she’d coolly instructed him to be on his way, despite very clearly not being anywhere close to fine, he’d bet her walls were a little more solidly constructed than most, probably from years of practice. Well, he wasn’t most men, and those thick walls didn’t represent a challenge so much as a screaming red flag. One he was more than happy to accept at face value.

  So no, he didn’t wave back. He did curse under his breath, however, when he realized he was checking her raised hand for a wedding ring. “Jesus, Blue, don’t you ever learn?” he muttered to himself, then turned his back to her as he slid his phone out of his pocket.

  Before he could dial for help, the sound of tires spitting gravel had him turning around again. What is it with the folks in this town? He caught sight of a little green Prius swerving from the middle of the intersection to the side of the road where he’d parked his truck, barely missing clipping the front bumper before it came to a stop, half on the road and half off. Can’t anyone here read a damn stop sign?

  A woman of shorter-than-average height with a compact, curvy frame popped out of the car. She had a wild mass of dark curls sprouting every which direction and was wearing a—what the hell was she wearing? It was a full-length formal dress, rose colored and shiny, really shiny, as if it was made out of satin. On crack. There was some sort of off-the-shoulder thing going on and a hideous, mutant flower made of the same unnatural material, only a few shades darker, attached to the other shoulder. The whole of it looked like a prom dress gone horribly wrong. Except she was a good half dozen years or more past prom age. Carrie: The Reunion, he thought, somewhat morbidly fascinated.

  She gathered up the skirt, which was voluminous, revealing what looked a lot like brightly flowered . . . were those rubber garden boots? Oh, why the hell not? Then left her car door hanging open into the roadway as she rushed toward the banged-up sports car.

  “Hannah!” she cried as she ran toward the driver’s-side door. “Hannah? Oh my God, are you okay?”

  Hannah. The name sounded a lot more down-to-earth than suited the woman still strapped into the Audi. She looked more like a Danielle or Blair, or some private club name like Sloan or—or Tenley. He immediately shut out thoughts of his ex and stepped around the front of the car. “She’s okay,” he said, “but she needs a tow, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a paramedic take a look at her.”

  Prom Queen of the Walking Dead jerked back in surprise at the sound of his voice, then instantly spun on him. “Did you do this?” she demanded. “Did you run her off the road?” She stalked toward him, which, despite her small frame, was scarier than it should be, mostly due to the getup she had on. Mostly.

  She stuck her hand out. “Insurance information? License?” She lowered her hand before he could give her anything, not that he’d planned to, and patted her hips and middle, then swore. “Stupid dress. No pockets. Wait right here while I get something to write with,” she told him, finger in his face, which was when he noticed the god-awful green lace gloves she was wearing. “And on,” she added.

  “No need,” he told her as she spun on her rubber-booted heel, making her spin right back again, then reach up to grab the tiara—how on earth had he missed that?—that swung precariously from the wilds of her dark hair to dip over one side of her forehead.

  “You already gave that to her? Well . . . good. That’s good. What happened? Have you been drinking?” She tried to remove the tiara, but it was hopelessly stuck in her hair. More swearing.

  He started to reach out to help her, then thought better of it. He worked with his hands for a living, so probably better not to give her a chance to bite them off. “Your friend ran the stop sign,” he said calmly. “She swerved to keep from hitting me—and she didn’t hit me, by the way—only the sign there wasn’t so lucky.”

  “She’s not my friend, she’s my sister. Well, we’re friends, too. I mean, we’re close, not geographically, but—wait, she ran the stop sign? What stop sign? That intersection doesn’t have—” Prom Queen whirled around, almost sending the drunken tiara flying.

  Calder sighed and pointed. “Unless I’m hallucinating, and at the moment I’m not entirely confident in saying I’m not,” he added, “it does. Four of them, in fact.”

  “I was born here and I can absolutely guarantee you that—” Her shoulders slumped as she looked at the intersection. “Hunh. What do you know? When the hell did they
do that? And why? This town barely has enough traffic to warrant the single traffic light we do have, and that’s in the heart of it, much less a four-way stop on the outskirts.”

  “I couldn’t say. I was just going to call nine-one-one and ask a recommendation on a tow truck from whoever answered.”

  “Sal’s,” she said, without glancing at him. “I’ll call him. I’ll call my brother, too. He’ll send Bonnie over.”

  “Bonnie?”

  She looked back at him now. “The paramedic.” She said it as if he were dense, or a little slow. “My brother is the police chief.”

  Of course he is. Calder began to realize that any hope he had of making the meeting with his great-uncle anywhere close to on time was already lost. And that was a problem. A big one. But life happened. Hell, wasn’t that how he’d ended up in Blueberry Cove in the first place?

  “Don’t call Logan.”

  Calder and Prom Queen both turned to find Hannah standing behind them, one hand braced on the roof of the sports car. She didn’t look too steady on her feet and he was already moving toward her before he realized it.

  “His wedding is this weekend,” Hannah said, looking oddly regal despite the banged-up face and messed-up shirt. Maybe it was the still-perfect hair, or the too-straight set to her shoulders. “He doesn’t need—”

  “Oh God, Hannah,” her sister cried, rushing past him to Hannah’s side. “You’re bleeding!”

  A wedding, Calder thought, pausing a step. Well, that explains the dress. I guess. He shuddered to think what the rest of the wedding party looked like.

  “I’m fine,” Hannah assured her sister. “I just need to clean up a little, maybe get some ice and a few ibuprofen in me, possibly with one of Fergus’s whisky chasers, and I’ll be good to go.”

  “You’re in shock. You should be sitting down.” The shorter woman looked her sister over and gasped. “Oh no! Your blouse—”

  “Willy Wonka,” Hannah said, still sounding shaky, but her gaze lifted from her sister then, and found his. A hint of a smile curved her puffy lip. “Bastard,” he and Hannah both said at the same time.

  He shouldn’t be smiling. He definitely shouldn’t be thinking how beautiful she was, even all banged up. And he absolutely, positively shouldn’t be saying, “I can give you a ride into town, get you somewhere you can clean up. Get some ice.” His smile grew slightly even as he mentally kicked himself for being the idiot he clearly was. He blamed it on the town. Obviously they were one cuckoo short of a full nest and he’d been elected to fill the void. “Either in a baggie, or in a glass. Or both.”

  Hannah’s sister blinked at them both, then sprang back into action. Calder had the feeling she sprang a lot. It was dizzying. Although, in fairness, it might be the dress, the crazy hair, and drunken tiara making it seem that way.

  “I can take care of my sister,” Prom Queen said. She turned to Hannah. “I was just heading out to the Point. You can come the rest of the way with me.” She tossed Calder a look as if he were somehow still the bad guy in all this, then looked back at her sister. “We’ll call Sal and get him to tow your car—which, you were right, I do love it!” She gently took Hannah’s arm and tucked it in hers. “So cute! Or, it was. And it will be again,” she rushed on to say, as if her sister were in a far more fragile state than Calder was coming to believe she actually was.

  Hannah was definitely shaken from the wreck, and a little banged up, but she wasn’t waiting to be rescued. In fact, now that she’d been given a few minutes to pull herself together, it seemed to him she was handling things much as she’d claimed she would. She wasn’t turning down her sister’s offer of help, either. She was calm, rational, doing what needed to be done. Maybe not the girl-next-door exactly, but . . . somehow he found himself thinking he’d been a bit hasty with his initial snap assessment.

  “I don’t think she’s going to fit in your car,” Calder told Prom Queen. “I can give her a ride.” What the hell, he’d already screwed up the big Blue family reunion. He’d just have to call Jonah and let him know he’d be there a bit later than planned. It was already destined to be one giant cluster anyway.

  “It has a passenger seat,” Prom Queen informed him. “Just because I drive an environmentally friendly car while you drive that monster gas hog, is no reason to—”

  “I was referring to the balloons,” Calder said, nodding toward her little Prius, which was presently stuffed to the gills with an array of silver-, white-, and rose-colored helium-filled balloons, some of which were trying to escape out of her open driver’s-side door. “And if you can figure out how to haul five hundred pounds of feed and a four-horse trailer behind that thing, I’ll gladly give up the gas hog.”

  “Oh! The balloons! Crap!” And with that, Prom Queen was hotfooting—or booting, as the case may be—back toward her car, leaving her abruptly released sister to steady herself against the hood of her damaged vehicle.

  Calder stepped in to help, but stopped short when she straightened and lifted a hand to stall him. So, still a little Ms. Independent. He caught sight of her stiffening shoulders. Maybe more than a little.

  “You’ll have to forgive her,” Hannah said. “She’s—that’s Fiona—she’s an interior designer by profession and in charge of planning our brother’s wedding, so she’s got a million details on her mind at the moment. And then I go and get in an accident. She’s usually not that rude or scatterbrained.”

  Calder wisely kept his opinion to himself. “Just being protective of her family. Nothing wrong in that. Why don’t we get you over to the paramedic or the ER if you’d rather go there, and we’ll let your sister handle calling in for the tow.”

  Hannah surprised him by merely nodding. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’ll need to call Beanie, too.”

  “Who’s Beanie?” It surprised him that he actually wanted to know.

  “The owner of the sign I just took out. Her husband built it and hand-painted it.” She looked over at the pile of shattered planks. “I feel awful about ruining it.”

  “Sounds like the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind making another one. I’m sure it will be fine.” He motioned toward his truck. “Is there anything you need from your car?” He lifted a hand. “I’ll get it, just tell me.”

  “He can’t make another one,” she said instead. “He passed away last year. That’s why I feel awful.”

  Calder stopped and looked at her, and saw she was on the verge of tears. And likely not the sweet trickle of a single tear sliding down a pale cheek, either. He didn’t know her, but despite his earlier rush to judge—okay, maybe his ongoing rush to judge—something told him she wasn’t a crier. Something also told him that it probably wasn’t the sign that had her feeling suddenly undone. Maybe it was all of it, the accident, her brother getting married, and now adding to her sister’s list of worries. Maybe the sign was simply the final straw. He didn’t know. And he shouldn’t care.

  “Come on,” he said, gently taking her elbow, but keeping his hand there when she would have pulled away. “We’ll get it all figured out.”

  She was taller than he’d initially thought when she’d been in the car. Somewhere around five-nine, maybe five-ten. He didn’t know what kind of heels she had on, but, regardless, she wasn’t much shorter than he was, and he came in at six-one. Lithe and lean, not much in the curves department, either. That much he’d accurately ascertained from his blouse assessment earlier.

  She paused as she noted the sign on the side of his truck. “Blue Harbor Farm.” She looked back at him. “I thought you said you were a contractor.”

  “I am. Family business. Fourth generation.”

  “And the farm?”

  “First generation,” he said with a smile.

  “You?”

  He nodded.

  “Sounds like a lot to juggle.”

  “If you ask my father, it’s a waste of time and money. If you ask my brothers, a hobby that got a little out of control.”

  “And if I asked
you?”

  He kept his smile in place, but his answer was serious and heartfelt. “The thing that kept me sane through a hellacious divorce.” His smile grew slightly. “Continues to keep me sane working with family.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “About the . . . hellacious part.” She waved a hand briefly, but said no more. She held his gaze, then looked at the sign again, more, he thought, for somewhere else to look. Other than at him. He wasn’t sure what she’d seen in his expression, but banged up or not, she seemed a pretty sharp sort. So probably . . . too much.

  He saw her eyebrows lift. “Calais?” she said. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “Not that far. Hour and fifteen to the company office, hour-forty-five to the farm.”

  “Unique town, Calais. Sort of umbilically attached to Saint Stephen across the border in New Brunswick, right? Interesting blend of cultures.”

  “Mais oui, bien sur.”

  She smiled a little at that. “I guess you grew up speaking French and English, living so close.”

  “It’s predominantly English on both sides of the border. I speak French because my mother is French Canadian. I grew up with both languages.” He opened the passenger door to his truck.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” she said, as he helped her up to the passenger seat.

  She levered herself into the truck with a natural, graceful ease, making him wonder if she was a dancer, or some other thing that elegant women did with elegant bodies like the one she had. She required only a little assistance from him, which was just as well, he thought. Putting his hands on any more of that elegant body wouldn’t be wise. She was the kind of distraction he never needed in general, and definitely didn’t need right now.

  She pulled on her own seat belt, wincing a little as she did, then immediately leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “But I’m very grateful you did.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, palming the door, intending to close it.