“Well, your aunt and uncle raised you, didn’t they? And yet you don’t seem to feel that you owe them even the slightest—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. My aunt and uncle did not raise me. They’re very nice people, and they are raising my niece, for which I am very grateful, since my sister is a bit of a mess at the moment, and Nevaeh’s dad took off basically the second she was born. But I had a pair of very kind, supportive parents until a few years ago, when a semi going the wrong way down Highway One took them both out.”

I blinked at him, surprised. I’d never heard this.

“And yes, Lucy and Ed have been great ever since,” he went on. “But I was twenty-five at the time. I did not need surrogate parents then, or now.”

I sat for a moment in silence, staring straight ahead as a single fat drop of rain plunked down on the hood of the pickup. Then I said, “Well. I’m sorry about your parents. And your sister. That’s awful. In different ways, of course, but still . . . awful.”

“Thanks. But who are you, anyway,” he demanded suddenly, “to talk about how I treat my relatives? Aren’t you the one whose own family offered to send a private plane to get you out of here before the storm, then turned the invitation down?”

I whipped my head around to glare at him. “So you were listening to my private phone call after all?”

“How could I not? You were practically yelling. It was kind of hard not to hear.”

“You know what.” I grabbed for the door handle. “I don’t need a ride to my place. I’ll walk.”

“Oh, no.” He flipped a switch, and the door lock snapped into place. I was trapped. “You’re not getting out of this that easily. You can’t judge me for doing the exact same thing you’re doing.”

“Actually I can, because you’re not doing the exact same thing I’m doing. I’m riding out a hurricane safely, at your aunt’s house on the highest point on the island. You’re doing it recklessly, in a house that’s not even finished, on a beach.”

“Honey, I’ve got news for you,” he said, turning on the motor again, then revving it. “If you think there’s anywhere safe on this island to ride out what’s heading toward us, you’re crazy.” As I gaped at him, he added, with a wicked grin, “You really should have listened to your mother.”

Chapter Fifteen

Time: 2:53 P.M.

Temperature: 79ºF

Wind Speed: 37 MPH

Wind Gust: 55 MPH

Precipitation: 1.2 in.

He was right. I should have listened to my mother.

But not about fleeing ahead of the hurricane that was heading my way. She’d once told me to look out for guys like Drew Hartwell . . . well, not him, exactly, but “artistic types.”

And what else could you call a carpenter who not only restored old homes and furniture but had built his own, on one of the most hurricane-prone beaches in the world?

Doctors, lawyers, financiers, any kind of business owner . . . fine with Mom. But pursuing a relationship with an artistic guy was almost as bad, to her, as pursuing an art career yourself.

Not that I was pursuing a relationship with Drew Hartwell. I was merely stuck in a truck with him.

Even worse, it had begun to rain in earnest. Large, leaden drops fell like bullets on the pickup.

“Great,” I said, staring sullenly at the boarded-up windows of the houses we drove by. There was absolutely no one else on the street. The entire town might as well have been deserted.

“What?”

“Nothing. Except that now I have to ride my scooter back in the rain.”

He glanced at me. “Didn’t you bring your raincoat?”

“No, I did not bring my raincoat. You rushed me out of there so fast, I didn’t have time to grab it.”

“This is a hurricane, Fresh Water,” he said, sounding amused. “You’re supposed to always have—”

“Well, I don’t!”

He slammed on the brakes. We were in front of my apartment building. Since I’d been unable to get my seat belt buckled back in the Hartwells’ driveway, I would have gone sailing into the dashboard if he hadn’t thrust out a strong arm to stop me.

“Thanks,” I said, uncomfortably aware of how hard the muscles and bones of his arm felt against the softness of my breasts. Uncomfortable, of course, because I liked it.

He, however, didn’t seem to notice. His arm moved past me.

“Stay here,” he said, as he fumbled for something in the glove compartment.

“Why?” I was confused. What he’d been fumbling for turned out to be a clear plastic rain poncho, which he unfolded, then tugged over himself. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to go get your scooter,” he said, turning those too bright blue eyes on me as the rain suddenly came pouring down in buckets all around us. “I’ll throw it in the back of the truck.”

Then, before I could say a word in reply, he stepped out into the silver, streaming rain, slamming the door behind him.

“What?” I watched as he strode toward my scooter, the only such vehicle sitting forlornly in my building’s parking space meant for motorized bikes. “Wait. You can’t— What are you—?”

I flung open the passenger door and was met by a flash of lightning, followed quickly by a clap of thunder.

I didn’t care.

Nor did I care about the hard, stinging rain that quickly soaked my T-shirt and shorts, or the leaves that were being flung about by the wind and slapped against my legs, arms, and face. All I cared about was not allowing Drew Hartwell to do anything nice for me, because then I’d owe him something.

“Wait,” I cried, rushing up to him as he expertly rolled my scooter off its kickstand. “You don’t have to do this. I was only kidding. I’m happy to ride—”

His classy clear plastic rain poncho had a hood, but the wind was so strong it had blown it back, so his dark hair was already plastered to his head. “Get back in the truck.”

“But I—”

Another flash of lightning, followed by another crash of thunder, this one much louder than the last. I felt it reverberate in my chest. Being outside in this weather was probably not a good idea.

Riding a scooter in it was probably an even worse one.

“Get back in the truck,” he roared.

I wouldn’t, however. I hurriedly opened the back of the truck and rearranged the oddities I found there so my scooter would fit—the fishing coolers, toolboxes, shrimp boots, and other assorted paraphernalia of Drew Hartwell’s life, including, for some reason, several folding lawn chairs and, of course, the chain saw.

Then I helped him lift the bike into the bed of the truck, even though he kept roaring at me to stop, that he could handle it.

But I knew how much that thing weighed. Even though it was a small scooter—barely street legal in some states at 50cc, and so not requiring a motorcycle license to drive—it took both our efforts to haul it onto the truck.

He was seething by the time we both climbed damply back into our seats.

“I thought I told you to stay in the truck,” he said.

“Well, I thought I told you that I could handle it on my own.”