you lived on the island always prompted a myriad of questions. How did we manage in the winter? What was it like growing up in such a small community? How on earth did we function without cars? And as much as I might enjoy five extra minutes with this sentient Ken doll, I had somewhere important to be, and important governmenty things to do, like . . . well, I wasn’t entirely sure yet because my tenure as mayor was literally days old. Nonetheless, there were things. I needed to go attend to the things.
“I’ve been here a few days,” he said. “How about you?”
My smile widened, and I swallowed down a chuckle. “I’ve been here awhile. Thanks again for your help. Someone will be along any minute to clean that up.” I pointed a thumb at the horse poo, not wanting him to think our streets weren’t well tended to. “Have a wonderful stay on the island.”
He nodded, hesitation flickering across his face until his smile tilted upward again. “I will, thanks, but I have to ask you . . . by complete coincidence, I’ve been following you for about ten minutes, and this is the third time you’ve lost a shoe. I find that peculiar.”
My cheeks sizzled again, and it had nothing to do with the weak autumn sun, or even his nearby hotness. My face was heating up because, really, what he meant was what kind of a klutz can’t walk and keep her shoes on at the same time? Which was a very legitimate question. Unfortunately, my answer was the kind of klutz who lets her sister talk her into things. In my defense, Emily is ten times more stylish than I am. She’s taller, and slender, with gorgeous strawberry-blonde hair. The kind of hair that always makes men look twice, if not three times. Especially men like the one standing before me, eyeing me with curiosity but not a hint of attraction because my hair is curly and brown and solidly average. Basically, on a scale of one to ten, Emily’s an eight. Our younger sister, Lilly, is a twelve, and I hover somewhere around a six, unless it’s really humid and then I plummet to a scary, witchy-haired four. Growing up I was often referred to as the smart one, and I was never sure if that was a compliment or a concession. Either way, I’d long ago come to terms with that, and hopefully, with my new role in the community, I could prove to everyone that yes, I am the smart one. However, this was not an auspicious beginning.
I looked down at my feet. “Um, they’re not actually my shoes. They’re my sister’s and they don’t fit. Obviously.” Nervous laughter rose from my throat unexpectedly—because it had just hit me. In this prince-rescues-the-damsel scenario, I wasn’t Cinderella. I was the aesthetically challenged stepsister. I was Drizella. Awesome. “Anyway, I’m on my way to a meeting, so thanks again.”
I turned with a little wave and peered down the street to estimate how many steps were between me and the post office. Too many. I’d never make it without another foot-popping mishap, especially with that soon-to-be-somebody’s-husband watching me. Choosing the lesser of two embarrassing evils, I kicked off both shoes, hooked them with two fingers, and headed off down the sidewalk to the echo of him chuckling. Again.
Chapter 3
Fifty-five steps. It was fifty-five steps to the Trillium Bay Post Office. I’m not sure why I counted, but I had, and now I knew. Fifty-five. I twisted the old-fashioned crystal doorknob and pushed open the door, hearing the antique brass bell above the frame jingle upon my entrance. Constructed in 1884, the post office harbored that wonderful timeworn-building smell, dampness tinged with dust and several coats of paint. The scent was both familiar and soothing, especially when it also smelled of cookies. Shari Bartholomew had been the postmaster here since before I was born, and not only did she always have the most up-to-date gossip, but she also loved baking. It wasn’t unusual to find a plate of cupcakes or cookies waiting to be shared, and I needed a quick dose of simple carbs after the whole shoe-in-the-poo, sexy-stranger ordeal.
Shari looked up from a project in her lap and smiled brightly as I walked into the tiny lobby. Wenniway Island didn’t have delivery service, so the post office was a popular visiting spot as neighbors stopped by daily to get their mail. Since most days