1.2

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.”