Sea Glass Sunrise by Donna Kauffman Page B

mental gears, curious to see how the roof construction was configured around the oak tree, he reached for the door and noticed the long brass handles were actually flamingoes shaped as . . . He bent down for a closer look. “Croquet mallets?” The whole town was certifiable. He was thinking maybe his branch of the family had escaped the Cove to save their sanity when the door swung open and he had to jerk back to keep from being smacked directly in the face with a flamingo mallet.
    “It’s okay, Eula,” the woman was saying as she backed out of the shop, a moderately sized leather-strapped oak steamer trunk cradled in her arms. “I’ve got it. I just—ooph!”
    Calder hadn’t been able to both straighten and move out of her path at the same time, so had opted for not getting his face clobbered. His arms came around her as he fully righted himself, his hands covering hers as he kept the steamer trunk from pitching to the sidewalk. He just managed to catch the door on the toe of his boot before it hit her in the elbow. “I’ve got you,” Calder said, bracing her in the shelter of his body until they were steady.
    She turned her head to see who had her, causing him to duck back in order to keep the lace-covered brim of the little hat she was wearing from clipping him across the cheek.
    “You.” She said it like an accusation.
    He would have known those stormy, dark blue eyes anywhere. He was grinning before he thought better of it. “Every day.”
    She started to turn, but he tightened his hold for a moment.
    “Mr. Blue—”
    “Calder. And, just—wait,” he instructed. “Don’t pull. Something on your dress is caught in my, uh . . . belt buckle.” It was only because he was a whisper away from her face that he saw her cheeks flush a little. It would otherwise have been almost impossible to tell, since she had enough makeup troweled on to rival a wax museum mannequin. He guessed it was to cover the damage from going one-on-one with the air bag and losing. “I’d ask what on earth it is you’re wearing, but it’s probably best you don’t explain. Hold on.” He shifted, trying to free himself from the white lace edging the voluminous layers of purple satin that made up the wide skirt of the antebellum ensemble she had on.
    “I’ve got the trunk,” she said tightly, sucking in her breath when he inadvertently brushed against the curve of her backside, though how he’d managed that kind of contact through all the fabric between them was beyond him. “Just, get unstuck,” she said, sounding more than a little breathless.
    His body wasn’t remotely concerned with figuring out how it had made contact with the softly rounded curve of her backside; it was too busy enjoying the aftereffects of such contact. What are you, fifteen? Copping a feel? “Trying,” he managed, knowing if he didn’t free himself quickly it was only going to get more embarrassing for both of them.
    “Please,” she said, sounding strained now. “Rip it if you have to, it’s not like it could possibly hurt the dress.”
    “True.” He made sure she had hold of the trunk and shifted them both back a step so he could release the door. It swung closed in front of her as he straightened his stance and reached down between them to untangle the intricate scrap of lace from where it had somehow completely woven its every tiny strand in and around the prong of his belt buckle, as if they’d done some kind of slow bump and grind. He tried not to brush his fingertips over her surprisingly curvy backside any more than he had to. Stop thinking about bumping. And grinding. He tugged a bit harder than he’d meant to and jerked her right up against his— Jesus, Blue, just rip the fucking thing, will you?
    “Hold still,” he ground out, when she shifted against him. She might have groaned a little, or maybe that was just his own private fantasy. “There,” he said a second later. “Got it.”
    She turned around so fast they almost