Page 4 of Last Wish Wedding

“Of course. I am actually headed to the docks myself,” he answered, gesturing to the still intact boat on the trailer.

Nodding, she gathered some items from her car and opened the passenger side of the cab. Mac hustled to move things around and make room for her on the seat. “Oh hey,” she exclaimed, picking up the sweatshirt he’d tossed there earlier. “Do you mind if I borrow this?” She gestured to her bloodied shirt.

“Be my guest,” he said. And stared opened-mouthed as she whipped off her blouse and donned the sweatshirt. The view of a black lace bra over a perfectly toned torso lasted only a second. But it was enough for his sex-deserted body to respond.

She smiled over at him. “Sorry, I’m sure that was nothing you haven’t seen in your life. I just needed to get that off. Been awhile since I did trauma, and I still am not a fan.”

Mac guided the truck carefully around the accident scene, following the police officer’s directions until they were back on the highway. The fog had thinned considerably now, though his hands still felt tight on the wheel from the earlier tension.

“So,” he ventured, glancing sideways at Kelsey. She was swimming in the over-sized sweatshirt but somehow managed to make it look good. “What you did back there... that was incredible.”

She shrugged, looking out the window. “Just muscle memory, really. You never really forget the training, even if you choose a different path.”

“You said you’re not a fan of trauma anymore?” They weren’t far from Portland now; the exit signs were coming up. He would have to take the exit to get down to the waterfront docks and the ferry, which would have the crane needed to lift the yacht into the water.

“No,” she said, turning those striking blue eyes his way. “I’m a nurse practitioner now. I have a primary care practice at a rural clinic up the coast and function like a family doctor for the community. Much more my speed—helping people manage their aches and pains instead of packing a gushing artery on a highway.”

Mac nodded, thinking about how even the EMTs had deferred to her expertise. “It seems like you’re pretty good at it, though. That guy was lucky you were there.”

“Yeah, well,” she shifted in the seat, pulling her legs up under her. “Sometimes life gives you experience you didn’t ask for. The clinic work suits me better. Regular hours, getting to know my patients, watching kids grow up healthy...” she trailed off, then changed the subject. “That’s quite a boat you’re hauling. Your customer must be very happy about their swanky new sailboat.”

Mac recognized the deflection but didn’t push. “Oh, he’s definitely happy to be getting this one,” he said, realizing she assumed he worked for the trucking company. It was a natural assumption, being that he was driving the truck, and wore the driver’s jacket with the logo emblazoned across his chest.

Traffic began to pick up as they approached the docks. She was busy digging in her bag. “Let me give you my insurance information. Here is my name and number, just have your office or however it works for your employer give me a call about the details. Usually, we just let the insurance company work it out.” She placed the note with the details on the seat between them. “I’ll see if I can borrow a car in the meantime, but I’m not sure my policy covers a rental.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’m sure they’ll give you whatever you need. Accidents happen,” he tried to reassure her as, from the scowl on her face, the lack of a car distressed her. Of course she would need something to drive around. She had a job to get to, and for all he knew, she had a bunch of kids to chauffeur. A side glance at her hands revealed she didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have any kids. People had all sorts of family arrangements these days, he reminded himself.

It bothered him slightly that he wanted to know what her living arrangements were, so he stopped himself from asking. It was very likely he would never see her again.

He’d chosen a life of solitude, and it had its price.

“I’ve got your companies information here, but what’s your name?” she asked as they approached the docks.

“Mac… Actually, Preston MacCormack, with two C’s, one K.”

She smiled at him as she wrote it down. He felt color rise in his face. He wasn’t sure why he said his name like that, just a nervous habit from when he was a kid.

“Okay, this is me. You don’t have to try to get this rig into the parking lot. I can walk from here.” They had reached the docks for the car ferries that took residents and tourists to the islands outside of Casco Bay.

He pulled to the shoulder as best he could in the tight streets, and she opened her door to slip down to the sidewalk. “Well, thanks? I mean that. Thanks for your help back there.”

“Sorry about your car...” he started.

A ferry blew its warning whistle. “I have to go. I guess we’ll be in touch. Bye.”

And with a slam to the cab door, she bolted to make the ferry.

Chapter 2

Kelsey pressed her forehead against the cold ferry window, letting the vibration of the engines rumble through her skull. The tears came silently, mixing with the salt spray on the glass. She’d held it together through the accident, through the aftermath, through the drive to the ferry with the stranger who hit her car. But now, alone in the corner of the passenger cabin, she was overcome.

Her hands were still shaking. Not from the accident itself. She’d handled that on autopilot. No, it was this morning’s meeting in Boston that had her trembling. The cold conference room, Jason Prescott’s perfectly tailored suit, the way he’d looked at her with that same condescending smile he’d always worn.

After the meeting, Jason had grabbed her wrist and hissed in her ear. “This is what’s best for Noah,” he’d said, as if he had any idea what was best for her son. As if the Prescotts hadn’t completely ignored Noah’s existence for the first three years of his life.

The Prescotts were old Boston money, their fortune built long before skyscrapers crowded the skyline. In the 1800s, they shipped cotton and rum across the Atlantic and ran half the city’s textile mills. Today, their wealth is quietly diversified: real estate trusts that own blocks of Back Bay, a discreet private bank for the city’s elite, and a family foundation whose name is etched into marble above every hospital wing and museum corridor in New England.

She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the borrowed sweatshirt, the unfamiliar scent on it momentarily distracting her from her spiral of worry. Noah was everything she had left of David. He was her everything since that horrible day when the police had shown up at her door.