Drive Me Wild - Melanie Harlow Page 0,5

should, which prompted further panic, which resulted in my car jumping one of those parking curb thingies and landing on the sidewalk.

Now, here’s where my memory gets a little hazy. I vaguely remember turning off the engine and sitting there for a moment, breathing hard, gripping the steering wheel, and listening to the rapid gunfire of my heart. Then I got out of the car, gathering the full tulle skirt of my dress in both hands, and making my way onto the sidewalk.

That’s when I saw them.

Three ridiculously hot guys standing there staring at me. For a moment I wondered if I’d hit my head and this was sort of a Wizard of Oz moment, where nothing was real.

“Are you okay?” asked the one in the middle. No joke, he looked like James Dean, only taller and more muscular, with tattoos covering one arm. I didn’t even know guys that hot existed in real life.

That’s when it hit me—I was dead and didn’t know it.

I blinked at him. “Is this heaven?”

“It’s Bellamy Creek,” said the one to the right of James Dean. He had the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. “Ma’am, do you need help?”

“I . . .” Help? Yes, I needed help, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember why. My head began to spin, my vision went foggy, and my knees gave out.

I sank into a puddle of tulle.

When I came to, I was cradled in someone’s arms. I opened my eyes and realized that James Dean must have caught me before I hit the ground.

“Set her down on the bench,” said a voice from behind. “Elevate her feet.”

I felt myself being gently lowered onto a hard surface. Someone grabbed my feet and held them up by the heels of my sandals, and someone else snatched my wrist and took my pulse. “Ma’am! Can you hear me?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Cole, should we call 911?” James Dean knelt down next to me.

“No—please,” I said. I wasn’t sure if calling 911 cost money or not, but on the off chance it did, I couldn’t let it happen. “I’m okay. I just got dizzy.”

He studied my face, his expression skeptical. “You sure?”

I nodded, noticing his eyes for the first time. They were blue too, but not a piercing blue like his friend’s. They were a softer, smokier blue. Hazy and beautiful.

I may have moaned.

“I don’t smell alcohol, pulse is normal,” said the guy holding my wrist.

“I haven’t been drinking,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I’m probably just dehydrated.”

James Dean looked toward my feet. “Moretti, will you run into the Bulldog and get her some water?”

“On it. Cole, you want to take over here?”

The guy who’d checked my pulse gently set my arm on my stomach and moved to take my feet. “Ma’am, do you have any medical conditions?” he asked. “Are you diabetic?”

I shook my head.

“Do you feel any pain?”

“No. Are you a doctor or something?”

“I’m a police officer. My name is Cole Mitchell, and this is Griffin Dempsey. Can you tell us your name?”

“Blair Beaufort.”

“Where do you live, Ms. Beaufort?”

“I’m currently between addresses.”

“And what brings you to Bellamy Creek?”

I tried to remember. “I think it was the pie.”

“The pie?” James Dean—I mean, Griffin Dempsey—sounded confused. “What pie?”

“Can you help me sit up, please?”

He took my hands and slowly pulled me into a seated position, while Officer Mitchell gently brought my feet down to the cement.

“Thank you.” I closed my eyes and took a couple deep breaths as the last hour pieced itself back together in my mind. “I was on the highway and I saw this sign for the Bellamy Creek Diner advertising the best apple pie in the Midwest since 1957. I happen to adore apple pie, so how could I resist?”

“Oh, that pie.” Officer Mitchell sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s an old sign.”

“You mean, there’s no pie?” I asked incredulously. Was that even legal? Surely you couldn’t keep advertising a pie that no longer existed.

“Well, there’s pie,” he said. “But not thee pie. Not the pie from the sign. We haven’t had that pie since Betty Frankel died and took the recipe to her grave.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” He shook his head and sighed tragically. “Damn, I miss that pie.”

“Me too,” said Griffin.

Their dark-haired friend who’d gone for the water appeared and handed me a tall Styrofoam cup with a cardboard straw. “Here you go.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, a little in awe of his dark, smoldering eyes and exquisite bone structure. Jeez, what