Page 39 of No Judgements

“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:2:53P.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, nothim, 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 forturned 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.