1.1

“Well, the sign is DOA,” he continued calmly, in that spine-tingling voice of his, as if she hadn’t just summarily dismissed him. “And given the steam rising from under the hood, your car might need more than a little CPR, too.” She heard him pushing at the air bag and she felt him angle in for a closer look. “Looks like you took a bit of a hit from the air bag canister when it popped. And, uh . . .”

At the odd edge in his voice, she cracked open one eye and caught sight of a head of tawny, sun-streaked brown hair. She couldn’t see his face, because he was staring at her . . . boobs? Really? She’d have snorted in disgust if she hadn’t been pretty sure doing so would make her face fall off. “Someone from town will tow me,” she said, barely restraining the urge to pull his head back. By the hair. Now get your stupid man face out of my boobs. She sighed. Six years of college, summers spent clerking for a federal court judge, a law degree, and a fast-tracked position in one of Capitol Hill’s premiere litigation firms . . . and the best she could do was stupid man face? Maybe she needed more than a long nap.

“Good.” He glanced up then and met her slitted gaze with an easy expression and eyes the color of warm honey. “You might want to call the paramedics while you’re at it.”

Oh God. She closed her eyes again, not wanting to know what her face must look like. Given how badly it hurt, she was guessing not great. Oh shit! The wedding! She shut that train of thought down immediately, knowing it wouldn’t help her at the moment. “How . . . bad . . . ?” she managed, too afraid to open her eyes again and look in the rearview mirror. Maybe she had far worse injuries than whatever had happened to her face, only she couldn’t feel them because she was in shock. Maybe—

“Well, I’m not sure,” he said in a serious tone, “but I think you’ve been gut shot by Willy Wonka.”

She frowned, winced, then gingerly lifted her head from the headrest and peered downward. The air bag had smashed the chocolate pretzels into a crumbly, chocolate blob and plastered them across the front of her once-beautiful Helona Georgette white silk blouse. She let out a long, shaky sigh of relief and closed her eyes again. “Bastard,” she breathed, then was surprised to feel her lips curving upward when he chuckled, even though the hint of a smile only intensified the throbbing. It was a nice sound, his laugh—rich, deep, and inviting, just like his voice, and his eyes, she thought.

“Wiggle your toes,” he said, and she cracked her eyes open again. “Make sure your legs are okay, and your back.”

“They’re fine,” she said, but wiggled her toes inside her leather flats, just in case. “Are you a doctor?”

“Contractor,” he replied. “I’m going to call someone to come get your car, come take a look at you.” He straightened. “Sit tight for a few minutes.”

She wanted to insist once again that he go on his way, but what came out was, “I think I can manage that.”

She also managed to open her eyes enough to watch him step to the front of her car and survey the damage. The deflated air bag was in her lap now, so her view through the front windshield was unobstructed. She should be looking at the damage to her car, too. Or reaching for the rearview mirror to take a gander at the damage to her face. What she did instead, however, was take a gander at her Good Samaritan.

He wasn’t a local. At least not one who’d lived in the Cove for any length of time. She hadn’t been home in a couple of years, but she’d have remembered him. A contractor, he’d said. Probably in town temporarily then, on a job of some kind. Or maybe not working in the Cove at all, but just passing through on his way down to Machias, or up to Lubec. It was all too much to ponder and her face hurt too much to think it through. So she let her head loll back on the headrest, focused on releasing the post-crash tension from her neck and shoulders, and used the moment to mindlessly enjoy the view.

He was tall. And big. Not like a gym-obsessed musclehead or anything. More like a lumberjack or, well, a contractor. The kind of man who’d gotten those broad, thickly muscled shoulders, and biceps that strained the armbands of his short-sleeved polo shirt through honest, hard labor. His chest filled out the soft, dark green cotton pretty nicely, too. Her gaze drifted downward, approving the flat stomach where his shirt was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. His approval rating climbed further when he bent down to look under her car, giving her a nice view of the back pockets of those jeans. Not a baggy, saggy inch of denim to be found there. No, sir. Not when he straightened again, either. Damn. Her gaze had moved back to his face, cataloging the honey-colored eyes, tanned skin, the smooth angle to his jaw, and that mouth wasn’t bad either . . . when he lifted his gaze directly to hers, as if he’d felt her watching him.

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?