next move while posing flamingo-like on the sidewalk and gazing at the errant shoe perched precariously atop the pounds of poo. It looked like the tackiest decoration on the world’s least appetizing wedding cake.
“Nice going there, Cinderella. Need some help?” A masculine voice floated over my shoulder just as a stranger moved into my peripheral vision. He stepped into the street and plucked the red-soled bane of my existence from the mound of horsey excrement. A brown leather jacket strained across his back as he bent over, and when he turned around to face me, I gripped the railing more tightly and momentarily considered swooning. He was tall. Quite tall, and undeniably handsome, all dark-haired and angular-jawed and chivalrous-like, rescuing me in my moment of need. He smiled a Prince Charming smile as if to show me that even his teeth were handsome. Yes, swooning was definitely an option, but sadly, I’m not the type. Though currently in a spot of distress, I’m no damsel. Not even a little bit. I’m Brooke Callaghan, a reasonable, sensible, practical woman, not some fluffy-headed girl prone to whimsical bouts of dramatic emotion. No swooning for me, even if he was hot-damn handsome. I offered back what I hoped was a dignified smile. As dignified as it could be, considering the fact he’d just pulled my shoe from a pile of horseshit.
“Thanks,” I said. “That was very nice of you.”
“You’re welcome. Looks like no harm was done.” He tapped my shoe against the edge of the sidewalk, effectively removing any organic matter, then set it next to my foot before straightening up. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at his face. Broad, too, with muscular . . . everything. I reconsidered the whole swooning thing, but instead said the first thing that popped into my head.
“Would you like some hand sanitizer?” Really, Brooke? I reached into my bag without waiting for his answer, mostly so I could look down and hide abruptly burning cheeks. Hand sanitizer?
I heard his soft chuckle as he said, “Um, sure.”
Thirteen years as a teacher had taught me that hand sanitizer is always a good thing to carry around, and this just proved it. I was a problem-solver. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I was prepared for anything. I was going to be a phenomenal mayor. My accidental prince held out a hand, and I squirted enough goop into his palm to sterilize a six-person hazmat team infected with Ebola while cleaning up a nuclear power plant explosion. I was a little enthusiastic with my squeeze.
“Thanks. That ought to do it.” He rubbed some in and shook off the excess. He might have chuckled again, but I wasn’t entirely sure because the cannon at historic Fort Beaumont boomed just then, making me jump like a timid little bunny rabbit, which was ridiculous because I’d heard that damn cannon go off three times a day, every single day of my life. I was normally immune to it, but not today apparently. The cursed shoes had thrown me off-kilter both physically and emotionally.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I think that’s just the cannon at the old fort. It seems to go off pretty regularly.”
The irony of a tourist telling me about the island made me smile, and this guy was most certainly a tourist because I’d never seen him before. I would have remembered! And, if I were the type to make split-second assumptions (which I am), I’d bet a year’s salary he was on the island to get married. Trillium Bay hosted dozens of weddings each year, and this guy had that utterly well-groomed . . . groomy look to him. His jeans fit just right and weren’t the big, baggy dad pants with all the pockets, and his shirt underneath his jacket was snug against his torso, but not too snug. It was black, with a tiny, indistinguishable logo, instead of something broadcasting his love for some college sports team or a cape-wearing superhero. Yep, a groom. Most certainly.
“Yes, they fire the cannon at noon, two, and four. Have you been on the island long?” I slipped my foot into the shoe and tried to regain my composure while at the same time preparing to make a hasty-as-possible exit. Normally I would have chatted up a visitor. I would have mentioned a few touristy things he should be sure to do during his visit, and maybe mentioned that I lived here, but telling someone