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His overriding memory of growing up there was plotting his escape. Once he finally managed to leave, Mac had never looked back except for occasional visits to his parents. Every time he came home, he counted the minutes until he could leave again. This would be his longest stay since he turned eighteen and left for college. Mac wondered how long it would take before he was chomping to leave again.

Salt air, diesel fuel and rotting seaweed—the aromas of home—filled Mac’s senses and turned his stomach. He hated the smell of rotting seaweed.

He cleared the ferry cargo area and fixed his gaze on the Beachcomber, the iconic building that anchored the town as he stepped off the curb onto Main Street.

A searing pain stabbed through his left leg, sending him sprawling into the street.

Mac lay there for a second, trying to catch his breath and gather his wits. A young woman was lying next to him, her bike about to be run over by a pickup truck that would hit her next. Mac ignored the burning pain in his calf and leaped up to stop the truck inches from her. He wasn’t fast enough to keep the truck from mangling her bike, though.

Mac squatted down to help the woman. She was struggling to breathe and must’ve had the wind knocked out of her by the fall. He quickly adjusted her shirt to cover full breasts.

“Take it easy,” he said. “Don’t struggle. That’ll only make it worse.”

Frantic caramel-colored eyes stared up at him.

The impact of their eyes meeting hit him like a locomotive to the chest. What the heck was that? Long hair the same color as her eyes fanned out under her head, and blood poured from huge cuts on her knee, elbow and hand. Mac winced, wishing he’d been more careful.

Tears spilled from her eyes.

Mac reached out to brush them away, his fingers tingling as they skimmed over her soft skin.

Her eyes widened, and she seemed to stop breathing altogether.

“Breathe,” he said. “Just breathe."

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