eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
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
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781420137460 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2015 |
| Series: | Brides of Blueberry Cove Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Sales rank: | 237,733 |
| File size: | 886 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Sea Glass Sunrise
By DONNA KAUFFMAN
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2015 Donna KauffmanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3746-0
CHAPTER 1
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 muscle-head 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 lightheaded. 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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sea Glass Sunrise by DONNA KAUFFMAN. Copyright © 2015 Donna Kauffman. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
