Sea Glass Sunrise (11 page)

“Sold, Mr. Mayor,” Calder said.

“Owen,” he replied. “Thanks again.” He motioned at the gravel.

Calder nodded and pushed through the door, thinking it was nice to discover at least one member of the town was sane.

Chapter Seven

As the door swung shut behind him, Calder squinted at the bright late-morning sunshine.
Interesting day.
Idling at the curb was the blue beast . . . and a pensive-looking Scarlett.
And it’s not even noon yet.
He’d expected she’d be testy from being kept waiting. He really needed to stop assuming the worst about her.

“Your gravel, ma’am,” he said and motioned toward the trunk.

She looked up, clearly startled from her thoughts, making him wonder what had brought that brooding expression to her face. Then her eyebrows climbed even higher. “You. Again.”

“Small town,” he replied, motioning again to the trunk.

She leaned down and reached around for the lever, then popped the lid for him. “Why are you here?”

“According to you? To destroy the Blue family and civilized life in the Cove as you know it.”

She gave him an arched look. “I meant here at Hartley’s, but never mind, it’s none of—just never mind. If you could put that in the trunk, I really need to get back over to the pub. Careful, the steamer trunk is still in there.”

She was flustered. Again. He hid his grin behind the popped hood of the trunk and put the gravel in the back, then moved the steamer to keep it clear and closed the trunk. He walked around to the driver’s-side door before she could pull away from the curb and leave him eating her dust. Again. “So, I feel as if I’m forced to ask now.” He gestured to the outfit. “Some weird chick-flick-movie-themed bachelorette party?”

“And here I was thinking more Adam Sandler meets Tim Burton. Or
Hangover 6
.”

He chuckled. “Point to Scarlett. Don’t worry. I won’t ask what the gravel is for. I don’t have time to testify in court.”

“Given our history, brief though it may be, I’m thinking you’re the last person I should ask to be a witness. And I don’t know about the gravel. I didn’t ask.” She might have smiled a little then. “Same reason.”

He grinned. “Smart move, Counselor. On both counts.”

She glanced up, surprised. “How did you know I was an attorney?”

“Owen. He mentioned it after taking your call. He can’t sing your praises highly enough. So, you’ve only been home one day and already you’re hot-rodding through intersections, taking out local signage, imitating Scarlett O’Hara in public, the questionable big bag of gravel . . . you’re not afraid of being disbarred or anything?”

“I wasn’t hot-rodding,” she said, sounding impatient, meaning he hadn’t been the only one to toss that in her direction. She glanced down at the dress, and her annoyance deflated a little. She sighed, and he wasn’t sure if her resignation was aimed at him, or her sister. Probably both. “Fiona thinks we’re not having enough fun, that we’re all too uptight and conservative, hence the bad bridesmaid dresses for the wedding rehearsal.”

“I take it the ‘from hell’ part at the end of that is a given.”

She might have cracked an actual smile at that. “The dresses are from hell, no doubt. But my family all gets along really well and just as likely Fi is right and it will be a hilarious blast. I’ll probably love every minute. Just as soon as I get away from the Cove and everyone I’ve ever known since birth and back out to the Point.” She gestured to the ensemble as a whole. “Not exactly the welcome-home impression I was hoping to make.”

“Owen said it’s been a few years.”

She gave him that arched look again. “Owen sure had a lot to say.”

Calder laughed. “You have no idea. But, where you’re concerned anyway, you and your family, it was all glowing.” He nodded toward the dress. “I figured the rehearsal was at the pub.”

“Post-rehearsal party, dinner, whatever. We’re decorating now.”

“With gravel.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’m sure whatever it’s for will be spectacular.”

He lifted a hand, palm out. “I plead the fifth, Counselor.”

She looked insulted on her sister’s behalf. “She’s very good, you know. Award-winning, actually.”

“Considering the outfit you have on at the moment was her idea, and the one she had on yesterday, when it wasn’t rehearsal day . . . you’ll understand if I take that part on faith.”

“How do you know this outfit isn’t mine?”

He put his hand on the side of the door and leaned down a fraction, so she had to tip her chin up to look at his face. “It’s not that I don’t think you’d wear whatever a good friend—or sister—asked you to wear. But my sense is that any friends you have on Capitol Hill are very unlikely to have a wedding that tasteless.”

She frowned. “How did you know I worked on Capitol—never mind.”

“Owen,” they both said at the same time.

She smiled at that, and honest affection warmed her dark eyes. Not for Calder, of course, but for Owen, he assumed. Even with the abundance of makeup, the crazy hat, the banged-up lip, and the bandaged nose . . . she was a beautiful woman. A fortunate gene pool had seen to that. But her wry sense of humor and that light in her eyes . . . yeah, those things made her attractive to him in an entirely different way.
Danger, danger, Blue. Walk away. Hell, run if you have to.

“I asked him out for a few beers,” he told her, referring to Owen. “He’s an interesting man.” His grin spread. “He didn’t turn me down.”

“Yes, well, he’s not good at saying no when he should. How do you think he ended up as mayor? Too kind for his own good.”

“I’d think he’d be a very good mayor.”

“Oh, he is. Best we’ve ever had, to hear Logan and Barb tell it.”

“Barb?”

“Sergeant Benson. You met her yesterday. At the station house.”

“Right. Five feet of fearsome.”

Hannah did smile at that. “Indeed.”

“From what I’ve heard so far, sounds like maybe Hartley is just the thing this town needs right now. Neither too progressive nor too conservative. Give the folks some much-needed historic perspective.”

“For a man who just got to town, you certainly seem to have nosed around a good bit.”

“Not really.” His grin deepened. “You all are a chatty bunch.”

“Can be,” she said, assessing him again, her expression making it clear she wouldn’t have been one of the forthcoming ones. Not with him, anyway.

Maybe it was the impervious expression she was trying so hard to maintain, or the fact that he liked her better flustered, but he found himself crouching down beside the car door and folding his arms on the open window frame. “Offer to hijack you out of this mess is still open.”

She smiled at that, even as he could tell she really didn’t want to. “Don’t you have your own business to attend to?”

“My meeting with Winstock was pushed back. Again. When do you have to be back for the rehearsal?”

“You’re incorrigible.” She didn’t say it in a way that was remotely flirtatious.

Which, perversely, just made it that much hotter. “Look at it this way, in that getup, you’re safer than you would be in a medieval chastity belt.”

Her eyebrows lifted and he saw her mouth pinch a little in distress. He was close enough again now and with the angle of the sun, he could spy the dark shadows under the heavy makeup. So she was sporting a healthy pair of shiners under all that. Dammit. He liked making her smile, taking her mind—and his—off of their immediate agendas. But he wasn’t trying to make her more uncomfortable.
Well, just what
are
you trying to do, then?

Hell if he knew.

“I should get on my way,” was all she said by way of reply. She put the car into gear.

Something about a woman dressed like a bad Vivien Leigh stunt double, but still looking as cool as Grace Kelly on her best day, driving a hot rod—and a stick shift, no less—turned him right around. And on. That was also a woman he had no business getting caught up with. Not even for an hour, a day . . .
a lifetime.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

That seemed to surprise her. “For?”

He lifted one hand and very gently pushed a wayward tendril of hair from her bruised and heavily made-up cheek, careful not to touch the tender skin. “The accident. Putting a painful damper on what sounds like an otherwise joyous family weekend.”

“Wasn’t your fault. And the weekend will be joyful. Is joyful.”

He chuckled at the way she’d said that, like a closing statement meant to brook no further comment. “Yeah. You sound overcome with it.”

She looked at him squarely then, which drew his fingertip along her cheek, down to her chin. “I’m very happy for my brother. I couldn’t be happier for him.”

“Then why do you look so miserable? I figured it was from getting smacked in the face with an air bag. You got some other sort of unrest going on back at the plantation, Miz Scarlett?”

She gave him a penetrating, no-bullshit stare, much the same way he imagined she’d look at someone she was about to cross-examine on the stand. It was impressive. But because he wasn’t on trial, it didn’t faze him in the least. He also noted she didn’t shift away from his touch. Now
that
fazed him.

“No unrest. Everything will be fine,” she said. “Is fine.”

He smiled, which spread to a grin when she scowled. “Good thing you’re not on the stand right now. You’re perjuring yourself.”

Despite herself, she smiled a little at that, then flinched when it pulled too much at her injured lip.

Despite his better judgment—because why start now?—he let his finger drift over her lower lip, stopping just short of the banged-up part. He felt her breath hitch a little, but he didn’t think it was because he was causing her any distress. A quick look at her eyes and those rapidly expanding pupils confirmed that.

He traced his finger over the pad of her lip, down over her chin, then along the side of her neck . . . and slowly across her collarbone. She let her eyes close and he felt a light tremor race across her skin.

“What are you doing?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Relieving a little pressure,” he said, and slid his fingers under the seat-belt strap, lifting it away from her injured shoulder.

She relaxed a little into the back of her seat, and he felt as much as heard the sigh of relief. “That’s really . . . nice,” she murmured.

“I am sorry,” he said. “About the pain.”

She kept her eyes closed, tipped her chin up slightly so the sun hit her face under the brim of her little hat. “Like I said. Not your fault.”

“Still don’t like you being in pain.”

Her lips curved at that . . . and suddenly he needed to relieve a little bit of pressure, too. Inside his jeans.

“Why do you care if I’m in pain or not?”

He stroked his finger back and forth over her collarbone, keeping the strap lifted away from her tender shoulder, off of the lovely curve of her breast, which admittedly the dress did some justice to. “Maybe I’m just a humanitarian. I don’t like seeing anyone in pain.”

Her smile deepened. Even when she winced a little as it stretched her bottom lip, the smile remained.

“What?” he said. “I’m just another heartless contractor? Tearing down the old to build the new. A bit cliché, don’t you think, Counselor?”

“Did I say anything?”

“Didn’t have to. Your condescending grin said it all,” he replied, but he was smiling too.

“Tell me about your farm,” she said, surprising him. Her eyes were still closed, and a smile, though softer, smaller now, continued to curve her lips.

You’re so damn beautiful
, he thought, wanting her to open those stormy eyes of hers, to look at him. Into him. She could. Her natural beauty would not normally have been a plus in his book. In his very personal experience, looks like hers became all too centrally important to their owners. But her beauty went past the surface.
Hannah
. She was more like her name implied: no frills, essential, stripped of artifice. Which was ridiculous when you factored in how much fooffy lace she was sporting at the moment. And yet . . .

“What animals do you have?” Her voice was gentler now, more relaxed.

He continued to trace his fingertips over her bruised collarbone, then along her shoulder, back up along the side of her neck. Along the shell of her ear, prodding the netting of the hat aside as he did.

“Horses, mainly. A few pygmy goats.”

Her wider smile returned. “There’s a combination.”

“Goats come in handy. They keep the pastures manageable. But you can’t ride ’em. So . . .”

“What kind of horses?”

“Do you ride?”

She shook her head, just once to either side, as if she was too relaxed to do more than that. “Never had the opportunity. I like horses, though.”

“I have four at the moment. Two quarter horses. A Morgan. And a Tennessee Walker.”

“Just you?” she asked.

“I have barn help, but yes, all four are mine. Bought two at auction, got them off the block, saved the quarters when they were rescued from a neglected farm by the county.”

Her smile deepened. This time she made a little noise when it tugged her lip, but that didn’t hinder her smile. “You are a humanitarian.”

“Well, I tried to tell you.”

Still leaning back against the headrest, she turned her head, and opened her eyes, looking directly into his. “When is your dinner meeting?”

He felt . . . poleaxed. He was the one doing all the touching. So why was it he felt as if she’d just reached out and grabbed him? Hard. “Not until five,” he said, finding his voice. “Why?”

“I was just thinking about something my sister said to me today.”

“About what, not having enough fun?”

“About trying too hard to please other people. About not having balance. Not making fun part of the balance. She has a point. It shouldn’t be a reward for good behavior. It should just . . . be.”

He searched her eyes, but couldn’t read her. Something was going on in there, likely something that had a lot to do with that uncertainty she’d spoken of when they’d run into each other earlier that morning. He wasn’t sure that should matter. It was her issue. She was an adult, making her own choices.