Sea Glass Sunrise

Book 0: Brides of Blueberry Cove

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Family Life; Marriage & Divorce; Siblings; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A downhearted lawyer and a hard-headed contractor might solve a mystery if they can stop fighting in this romance from a USA Today–bestselling author.
 
In seaside Blueberry Cove, Maine, friends are just another word for family, and big-city politics take a backseat to local pride. But the real treasure on these shores is always love...
 
When D.C. lawyer Hannah McCrae heads home to Blueberry Cove for her brother's wedding, she's dragging a lot of baggage along with her—and she doesn't mean suitcases. Betrayed personally, and humiliated professionally, the last thing she wants is a new man. That's fine with square-jawed, rugged contractor Calder Blue. He and Hannah may be wildly attracted to one another, but all he wants is to build the town's hotly contested new yacht club and mend a centuries-old family feud. Yet thanks to resentments old and new, day after day the pair wind up tangled in each other's business—and maybe soon in each other's arms.
 
Includes a delicious wedding cake recipe!
 
“Charming characters, emotion galore, a small town—you're going to love Donna Kauffman!”—Lori Foster
 
“A fun summer book with a touch of mystery set in [a] sleepy little seaside town.”—Harlequin Junkie

Release date: June 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 302

Sample

So, there was going to be a June wedding after all. Only it wouldn’t be Hannah McCrae in a gorgeous white dress, walking down the aisle.

No, she’d be swathed in wildflower blue. Or spring leaf green. Or dandelion yellow. Or some other color found only in nature and bridesmaid’s dresses.

Hannah didn’t slow down as she passed the cheery, hand-painted sign welcoming her to Blueberry Cove, Maine. Chartered in 1715. Population 303. “Make that three hundred and four,” she murmured, still undecided on when she was going to share that little tidbit with the rest of her family.

She should be happy for her big brother and his impending nuptials. And she was happy. Truly. Logan deserved all the love and fulfillment in the world and she was thrilled he’d finally found them. Alex MacFarland had gotten herself a good guy. Probably the last remaining good guy on the planet.

Not that Hannah was biased or anything. Or cynical, for that matter. Okay, so maybe she was a little cynical. All right, more than a little. Who could blame her after the year she’d had?

Hannah wove through the narrow streets of her hometown on autopilot, too distracted by her thoughts to soak up the sense of belonging, the unconditional love she always felt simply entering the Cove. Unable to sleep, she’d left her Old Town Alexandria row house at four that morning, then driven north for thirteen straight hours, fueled solely by the promise of that much-needed hometown group hug. Well, that and the king-sized bag of chocolate-covered pretzels presently tucked in her lap.

She dug in for another fix. They’d been an impulse buy when she’d filled her tank after passing through New York City. She couldn’t even say why. She hated salty and sweet together. Of course, she’d also hated finding out the guy she’d been giddily anticipating a marriage proposal from at any second had already proposed to someone else. In fact, he’d not only proposed to someone else, he’d married her. Four years ago. Which meant Hannah had spent eighteen months dating a married man. Eighteen monumentally stupid, blind-as-a-bat, how-could-I-be-such-an-idiot months!

She was a trial attorney, for God’s sake. A damn good one. She earned her living by knowing when people were lying to her. How could she not have known? How could she not have had at least some inkling of a suspicion long before Tim’s very petite, very blond, and exceedingly pregnant, sweet-faced wife stalked into Hannah’s office, in front of God and everyone—and by God, she meant Findley Holcombe, the senior partner of Holcombe and Daggett, and by everyone, she meant, well, everyone—and announced, quite loudly, using language that could only be described as salty, just what Hannah could do to herself, and stop doing to her husband?

Yeah, Hannah thought, and shoved the pretzel back in the bag. She hated salty and sweet.

As the Rusty Puffin pub came into view, she felt a tug in her chest, and a knot form in her throat. She wanted nothing more than to pull over, run inside, and be immediately folded into one of her uncle Fergus’s big bear hugs, but she couldn’t trust herself not to fall apart all over him. No way would she get out of there without telling him why she was a wreck, which would be as good as telling the entire town. Instead, she whispered a silent I love you, knowing she’d see him soon enough at the wedding rehearsal the following afternoon, and continued toward the coast road that would take her out to Pelican Point . . . and home.

She didn’t see the pickup truck until it was too late.

One second, she was glancing over at the tall shoots of summer lupines, in all their purple, pink, and white stalks of glory, and—dammit—digging out another chocolate-covered pretzel. The next, she was slamming her brakes and swerving to miss the tail end of the big dark green dually that was suddenly somehow passing right in front of her.

She missed the truck’s rear bumper by a hairbreadth, but the hand-painted sign on the far side of the intersection advertising BEANIE’S FAT QUARTERS, THE BEST LITTLE QUILT SHOP IN BLUEBERRY* COVE! wasn’t so lucky.

It all happened so fast, and yet each second seemed to be somehow elastic, as if she could live a lifetime inside of every single heartbeat of the accident as she was swerving through it. So many thoughts went through her mind as she careened toward the sign she knew Beanie’s husband Carl had so proudly painted for his wife when she’d opened up her little shop, what, fifteen years ago now? Sixteen? Hannah had just graduated high school. Carl had done the town sign, too, right in his adorable little potting shed-turned-art studio, touching the signs up like new every spring after the winter season did its number on them. And yes, okay, that made two good men, but Carl had gone to his great reward just last year, so that left Logan as the only one still breathing.

So many thoughts raced around inside Hannah’s brain in those weirdly elastic, terrifying, life-threatening seconds. The things she should have said to Tim during their final confrontation—on Christmas Eve, no less; that she should have told Logan and her sisters what had happened; that she should have come home for Christmas or the New Year, or both, and leaned on them instead of shouldering the holidays and the six months that had elapsed since then alone. That maybe she should have tried harder to make her newfound notoriety in the Capitol Hill legal community work for her, that she still felt terribly guilty for being involved with someone who was married to someone else, even if she hadn’t known, and hating—hating—that she’d ultimately caved, quit, and come running back home to the Cove with her humiliation tucked between her legs like the tail of failure and shame that it was.

Then Carl’s once-beautiful sign raced right up to the hood of her car and no amount of further wheel yanking and swerving was going to save her from smashing right into it. There was a small explosion as her air bag deployed, punching her in the face and chest, just as her shoulder harness jerked her tightly against her seat back. Her thoughts were yanked instantly back to the present as she plowed straight into the stack of brightly colored plaid quilting squares painted on the bottom corner of the sign. Sorry, Beanie, she thought inanely, along with Shit, shit, shit! as she finally slid to a stop a mere speck of an inch before hitting the cluster of tall ash trees that stood just behind the sign.

She instinctively batted at the white, puffy bag, trying to keep it from smothering her, as she struggled to regain clarity of thought. Her head was buzzing from the adrenaline rush, her pulse was pounding in her ears, and her face hurt. A lot. So did her shoulder. Then the driver’s-side door was being pulled open and there was a man crouching next to her. At least, given the deep voice, she assumed it was a man; she was still wrestling with the air bag.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice all deep and dark and smoky in that bass vibrato kind of way that sent shivers down a woman’s spine. Though, in all fairness, her ears were ringing from the impact and she was pretty sure shock was setting in, so it could have just been an aftereffect of the collision.

He effortlessly collapsed the air bag with one broad palm. “Whoa, whoa,” he added quickly, putting those broad, warm palms gently but firmly on her wrist and shoulder when she tried to wrestle off her seat belt. “Let’s make sure you’re okay before you move too much, all right?”

She wanted to be the cool, competent, in-control—always in-control—attorney she was. Not the exhausted, injured, bordering-on-hysterical idiot who stupidly and blindly dated married men yet still got the shivers over a smoky, hot, sexy voice. Sadly, the latter was the best she had to offer at the moment. “What . . . happened?” she managed, her voice sounding oddly tight, bordering on shrill. “Where did you come from?”

“I came from your left, through the intersection. You ran the stop sign. Not sure how you didn’t see me.”

She leaned her head gingerly back against the headrest, eyes still closed, willing her brain to get straight and her face to stop throbbing. “What stop sign? There’s no stop sign going that way.”

She felt his broad hands grow even gentler on her arm. “Well, then I took those big, red octagonal things with the word STOP on them the wrong way, but let’s not worry about that. You didn’t hit me.”

“Yeah,” she said, her breath coming out in small pants, her heart still feeling a little out of control as the shakes started to set in. “Good. I’m sorry. For scaring you. I—I’ll be okay. You don’t need to stay. I just need a few minutes, that’s all.” And a few painkillers. Possibly a few stitches. And a very long nap. “It’s not . . . your problem,” she gritted out, bolstering herself for another attempt to undo her seat belt. Though she might want to shoot for opening her eyes first. Yeah. Maybe a few more minutes. “Thank you, though. For stopping.”

“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?

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. . .