Some Kind of Wonderful (Puffin Island 2)

Everywhere she went she was confronting sympathy and pity and it made her squirm.

She could imagine the islanders talking behind closed doors, watching her as she walked around the island, waiting for her to fall apart.

They’d probably called a town meeting to discuss how they were going to support her.

She heard the car door slam and the solid crunch of Zach’s footsteps on the path as he approached.

Why couldn’t he have just driven away?

She’d wanted him to drop her off and leave so she could stop this insane happy act she was putting on, first with the islanders and now Zach. She felt drained. Keeping up the pretense of indifference was exhausting and she wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t overdoing it with her singsong voice and bright smile. She felt like a circus performer trying to get a laugh from a crowd of kids who didn’t want to be there.

All she really wanted to do was kick something. Hard. Starting with Zach. And the longer he hung around, the greater the chances of it happening.

Instead, she studied the large pot with dismay. “I’ve never seen a casserole that size. It would feed a family of twenty. If I’d been inside the house and opened the door I would have fallen over it and broken my other wrist.”

“Any idea who left it there?”

“No, but it’s someone who has no idea how impossible it is to lift a heavy casserole dish when you only have one working wrist.” She rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of her good hand. “I know people mean well and I’m grateful, really I am, but—” She was an object of pity and she hated that. “How am I meant to get it inside? Drag it? Hell, Zach. I’ve been back less than twenty-four hours and already I’m ready to leave.”

“It’s island life.” His tone was neutral. “Someone out there figured it was going to be hard for you to cook with one hand. It was intended as a kind gesture.”

Brittany stared at it miserably. Yes, it was kind but it was also a whole lot of other things. On Puffin Island, a casserole wasn’t just a meal, it was a symbol of solidarity, support and sympathy provided in moments of crisis.

She knew it.

He knew it.

She wondered if the casserole was in sympathy for the broken wrist or the return of Zachary Flynn.

He lifted the lid and sniffed. “Beef, I think. Smells good.”

“That’s not the point and you’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t being funny, I was being practical. Want me to heat it up for you? Chances are that I’m the reason you’ve been given this delicious-looking meal, so the least I can do is help.”

She didn’t want him heating it up. Enough of her was already heated up just by seeing him.

There was something ironic about being offered help by the man who, in all probability, was the reason for the casserole in the first place.

If there was one thing she hated more than being pitied by the locals, it was the idea that Zach might think she was still bleeding inside.

“I can manage.”

“Yeah? That’s a lot of casserole for one person.” His eyes gleamed. “Even a person in need of serious sympathy.”

“You think the volume is in direct relation to the degree of misery I’m supposed to be feeling? Extreme comfort eating?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t eat this by yourself. You’ll need to freeze some of it and that won’t be easy with your wrist in a cast.” Without waiting for her response, he took the key from her hand. The brush of his fingers sent a jolt of electricity running through her and she snatched her hand back.

There was a brief question in his eyes and then he turned away, his handsome face inscrutable. “I’ll carry this inside for you.”

Brittany tried to drag air into lungs that had forgotten how to work.

Despite her efforts not to, she must have made a sound because she saw him freeze, hesitate and turn fractionally, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to look at her.

For a brief moment the sun hit his profile, spotlighting features that were almost absurdly masculine. If he’d been so inclined he could have had a career modeling rugged outdoor menswear. He would have been the kind of model staring unsmiling from the flanks of Mount Everest, wearing arctic clothing and an inch of stubble on his strong jaw. His face was near perfect and at first glance his body was, too.

But she knew that underneath the black jeans and the shirt that molded lovingly to hard muscle, he bore scars, each one of them a brutal reminder of a life no child should have to live.