Everyone raised a hand to wave a cheerful hello, then asked when I pulled over about the damage we’d seen, or shared their own storm story, and then agreed that, all in all, the hurricane had not been as bad as expected, and that—except for the bridge washing out—the island had dodged a bullet.

But most of the fun was due to Drew himself.

Oh, he was still annoying. He’d insisted on taking “roadies” from his aunt’s house, cans of beer in insulated sleeves he kept in his beloved tool kit, and that he claimed, since he wasn’t driving, were safe and even appropriate for him to drink to “replace lost electrolytes” and ward off the post-storm heat and humidity.

But he was also funny, with his dry wit and (mostly) self-deprecating humor.

And it didn’t hurt that he smelled good. Despite the heat and how closely we were forced to sit together on the scooter, he gave off the scent of clean laundry (thanks to the shirt he’d swiped from his aunt’s house) and whatever kind of deodorant he wore.

And he was infinitely helpful with the animals. The key was right where Chett had said it would be, and if it hadn’t been for Drew, I’d never have reached the cockatiels in time: the pull string to the attic door was in the ceiling, way out of my reach. I’d have needed a ladder to grab it.

Drew merely reached up a hand and pulled it down.

If we’d taken much longer to reach the cockatiels—or if it had gotten much hotter in that attic—the outcome could have been very different.

But as it was, all eight were still alive when we got there—though they weren’t exactly chirpy. They perked up considerably once we moved them back down to Chett’s apartment, which was cooler than the attic, despite not having air-conditioning. At least we could open the windows and let in a breeze.

We fed and watered the birds, as Chett had instructed, and then set off to check on the rest of the animals on our list. The dogs were the easiest to care for, as they were waiting for us, wild for attention, wanting only to be fed and let out to relieve themselves (a few had made messes indoors, but those were easily cleaned).

The cats were more difficult because several of them hid, and I insisted that it wasn’t enough only to fill their bowls with water and food. We had to put eyes on each cat, so I could reassure their owners that it was okay . . . which wasn’t easy to do in apartments with no electricity and where the windows had been boarded up. Some of the places were as dark as mausoleums, and the shyest cats—one of whom was also black—chose to hide in the shadiest reaches under the bed.

Fortunately I’d tossed Daniella’s flashlight into my “pet rescue kit,” which also included Gary’s favorite cat treats. Eventually we were able to find each cat, establish that it was well enough to leave alone for one more night, and move on. Even the tortoise seemed to be in pretty good shape.

The only one who wasn’t was me. Spending so much time in such close proximity to someone to whom I was so attracted wasn’t doing me much good. It was especially annoying when he persisted in keeping his hands to himself, regardless of my many signals that it was okay now to touch me. Why not? I probably only had twenty-four hours left in Little Bridge as “Bree,” the pink-haired Mermaid Café waitress, and not Sabrina Beckham, Judge Justine’s daughter.

Why shouldn’t he be the guy to help me enjoy it?

Except he wasn’t exactly playing along . . . probably because I, like a dummy, had blurted out to him who I really was on practically my first occasion to do so.

And he, it turned out, was no fan of Judge Justine.

Welcome to the club.

The house with the shy black cat (Smokey) was our last stop on the list, and also happened to be located on a street near the Mermaid. As we were heading from it back to the scooter, we saw a barefoot blond woman wearing only a macramé beach cover-up over a bikini top and a tiny pair of jeans shorts coming down the branch-strewn street toward us, her cell phone in one hand and a small child of indeterminate sex—also shoeless and wearing only a diaper—clutching the other.

“Hey,” the woman said to us. She was waving the cell phone high in the air, apparently searching for bars. It didn’t seem to have dawned on her that there weren’t any, and she appeared frantic about it. The child, however, was smiling at us cheerfully. “Do either of you know where the, um, Manatee Café is?”

I stared at her, thinking of all the sharp or electrified objects on which either she or her child might step, especially since she wasn’t paying any attention to where they were going.

“Do you mean the Mermaid Café?” Drew asked.

“Oh, yeah, that’s it.” The woman lowered the phone, smiling with relief. When she smiled, the child smiled even more widely, and began chattering in a language known only to itself. “Someone said they’re giving away free food, only I can’t seem to get any service on my phone to check. It’s the weirdest thing.”

Drew cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the storm knocked out cell service to the island.”

The woman seemed shocked to hear this. “Really? We didn’t even know there was going to be a storm. I didn’t have time to stock up on milk for little Josiah or anything. Do you think the café will have milk?”

I sucked in my breath to ask the woman how she could possibly not have known there was going to be a storm when news of it had been broadcast all over the radio, television, and Internet for days—even as much as a week—beforehand, but Drew cut me off, as if he’d known what I was going to say.

“The Mermaid’s right around the corner.” He pointed to make sure the woman understood. “And I’m sure they’ll have plenty of milk for Josiah. We’re headed there now. Why don’t you let my friend here give you a lift on her scooter? I’ll take Josiah.”

Without waiting for a response, Drew leaned down and scooped up the toddler. Fortunately, the child seemed pleased, shrieking delightedly as he found himself suddenly dangling in midair.

I shot Drew a quick look to let him know I wasn’t pleased about his volunteering me for taxi service—then realized, when his gaze met mine and then shifted quickly to the woman’s feet, that he’d been thinking the same thing I had: that neither mother nor child should be walking around barefoot on that hot, storm debris–strewn pavement.

“Sure,” I said, jolting my scooter off its kickstand. “I can give you a ride. It’s only around the corner. Want to hop on?”

“Oh, no.” The woman shook her long blond hair politely, but I could tell she was longing to say yes. Wherever she and her baby had come from, they’d walked a long way. “I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience.”

I climbed onto the scooter and started the engine. “It’s no inconvenience. I’m going there anyway.”

“Well . . .” The woman reluctantly climbed onto the back of the motorbike, taking the helmet I handed to her. “I guess if it really isn’t any trouble . . .”

“It’s so close,” I said, nodding at Drew, who was already halfway down the block with Josiah bouncing on his shoulders. “They’re going to beat us there if we don’t hurry.”

They did, but only because I was so shocked when I turned the corner and saw the Mermaid that I slammed on my brakes. It wasn’t because of what the storm had done to the restaurant: Drew’s expert shuttering had guaranteed it was buttoned up tight against any wind damage from Marilyn, and Ed had sandbagged, preventing any storm surge flooding from the nearby harbor.