“I don’t know how it happened,” I babbled as the two men walked over. “The tree was fine this morning when I left. And then when I walked in a little while ago after work, it was like this—”

I gestured at the tree. Drew whistled appreciatively at its size.

“Definitely root rot.” Ed, inspecting the damage, sounded more excited than I’d ever heard him. “Rains last night must’ve soaked it, and these wind gusts we’ve been having pushed the whole thing right over. Some of ’em have gotten up to fifty miles per hour, which isn’t that much comparatively, but for a tree with roots like this—” He touched one of the branches, which snapped off in his hand but oozed an unctuous liquid. He shook his head. “This tree is sick. It got too big for the space it was planted in. Not enough permeable surface for its roots to absorb moisture and grow. Even if we pushed it back in, it would just fall over again in the next big windstorm. Tree commission should never have allowed it to be planted here in the first place.”

Yes. Little Bridge Island had a tree commission. No one was allowed to cut down, plant, or trim a tree without its permission. The “Cheers and Jeers” section of the Gazette was often devoted exclusively to savage personal attacks on citizens who’d done a hack job on their trees.

“Lucky you weren’t inside,” Drew commented laconically to me.

“Yes,” I said, keeping my gaze carefully averted from his open shirtfront. “But my cat is inside. Apartment B, right there, with all those branches pressed up against the door? Oh, and my landlady’s son’s guinea pigs are in A. Someone is supposed to be coming over to take care of them, but I don’t know how he’s going to—”

“Easy.”

Then Drew pulled the chain on his saw, and it started right up—so loud that I flung my hands over my ears.

“Do you have to—?”

Grinning, he began to hack away at the branches blocking access to my front door.

“You want to see your cat again, right?” he shouted over the din. “Then the answer is yes, I have to.”

I glared at him. I would have liked to present a calmer, cooler, more collected self in the crisis, but I wasn’t used to people starting chain saws right next to me. Especially people who looked like he did, with his muscles gleaming with sweat, and his five o’clock shadow darkening his jawline.

Things got even worse a few seconds later, when he took his shirt off. Apparently, the heat and humidity simply became too much for him.

“Here,” he said, distractedly handing the limp, damp garment to me. “Mind finding a place for that?”

It wouldn’t have mattered if I did mind, I thought as I took the shirt between a thumb and forefinger. I needed to play nice with him, since he was the one with the chain saw. And not just for myself. Though I’d heard back from Patrick and Bill that they and their dogs were safe—they had already checked in to the hotel—Sonny’s mother had sent a frantic text in response to my voice mail:

No gas. Staying w/friends in Vero Beach. Cousin Sean says he will look after the piggies if you can have tree removed. So sorry, save all bills for me! Much luv, Lydia

So it was up to me to save Gary as well as R2-D2 and C-3PO.

Well, me and this half-naked, hard-muscled guy in my courtyard.

“There,” Drew said, in a satisfied tone, switching off the saw. He’d made short work of the frangipani, clipping away the branches blocking all the doors in what seemed like seconds. “That should work for now. Anything else I can do for you, Fresh Water?”

Was there anything else he could do for me? Was he serious?

I blinked at him as he stood there, holding the heavy chain saw, his tanned, well-muscled arms and chest glistening with even more sweat than before, which was odd because the sky was really quite overcast.

Why, yes. Yes, actually, there was quite a lot he could do for me. He could run that razor-stubbled mouth of his all down my—

God, what was wrong with me?

“No,” I said quickly, shaking myself. “No, no, thanks. Thanks so much, both of you, for helping me.” All of my attention had been so focused on shirtless Drew, I’d practically forgotten that Ed was still standing there, too. “I’m so grateful. I’m sure you want to get going—” Please, please get going. “Unless . . .”

Was I being rude? What was the correct protocol when a shirtless man and his uncle came to your house and removed a bunch of tree limbs with a chain saw so you could get inside it?

“Could I, er, get you a drink first? I think I might have some beer in my—”

Before the words were fully out of my mouth, Drew was already setting down the chain saw. Then he took his shirt from my hand, threw it over his shoulder, and strode toward my front door. “Sure. Beer would be great.”

This was not the outcome I’d been expecting.

“I gotta go,” Ed was saying as he looked down at his cell phone—on which, it turned out, he did know how to both send and receive texts. “Lu needs me to pick up more of that smoked barbecue sauce at Frank’s while they’re still open. I guess she just likes me wasting gas when there’s a shortage.”

Drew tossed him a glance. “You’re wasting my gas because you’re in my truck, Ed.”

Ed waved at him dismissively. “I’ll be right back. I’ll pick up more beer, too, if they have any left.”

I watched in some dismay as he left. Don’t, I wanted to cry. Please don’t leave me alone with your hot shirtless nephew.

Especially as the sky was looking more and more overcast, thunder rumbling more often, and the wind getting stronger . . . strong enough that it was picking up all the blossoms that had shaken loose from the branches of the frangipani tree and was sending them spiraling around the courtyard in a desperately sad ballet.

But of course I couldn’t tell him not to go. So instead, my fingers unaccountably shaky, I merely undid the locks and led Drew Hartwell into the cool air-conditioning of my apartment.

“Sorry about the mess,” I babbled. “My roommate’s out of town so I haven’t been bothering to clean up after myself—”

Gary rocketed toward us like a furry gray missile, giving me an indignant meow for having been gone so long, then buried his head against Drew’s work-booted feet.

“Whoa,” Drew said, looking down.

“Oh, that’s Gary.” I noticed my bra from last night lying on the floor, swiftly lifted it, and stuffed it between the sofa cushions before he noticed. “He does that to everyone. I got him from the shelter, he’d been there for years. They don’t know what happened to him before that, they think he was abandoned and lived on the streets for a while. All his teeth rotted out, so I had to have them removed.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t help it. Drew Hartwell was in my apartment. “He’s attention starved.”

“I can tell.” Drew stooped to rub Gary’s head with an outstretched index finger. “Hey, there, Gary,” he said, as Gary purred, contorting himself in absolute ecstasy around Drew’s foot. “You’re a good boy.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll just get you a beer.”

I hurried into the kitchen, trying not to freak out over the fact that Drew Hartwell—Drew Hartwell—was in my apartment, shirtless, being nice to my cat.