He rang the bell. Knocked again. Called her number for about the fourth time and got no answer. Leaning toward the door, he thought he heard a ringtone inside.

“Do not do this to me,” he said to the voice mail. “It’s Finn—Malcolm Finnemore. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

He shoved a hand through his hair as if it would keep him from building up a head of steam. Maybe he could find a neighbor who would know how to get in touch with her.

Damn.

As she turned down the beach road toward home, Camille felt exhausted, her nerves worn thin after the ordeal in the ER. Julie was staring straight ahead, her face expressionless.

“Mom,” Julie said. “You can stop checking me out. They said I’m okay.”

“You’re right, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying. You have a contusion. You’ve never had a contusion.”

“It’s a fancy name for a bump on the head. Jeez.” Julie pointed at the house. “Who’s that guy?”

“What guy? Oh.” Camille turned into the driveway and parked. The guy Julie was referring to stood on her front porch, a phone clapped to his ear as he paced back and forth. He was tall, with a ponytail and aviator shades. His lived-in shorts and dark T-shirt revealed a physique of tanned skin and sinewy muscles. Shoot. Was this the courier sent by Professor Finnemore?

She got out and slammed the car door, and he turned to face her, taking off the glasses. And something unexpected happened—her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, yet she had no idea why. He was a complete stranger. But she couldn’t take her eyes off him. There was something about his stance and the way he held himself. He was just a guy, she thought. A stranger on her porch. There were a few glints of blond hair at his temples, framing gumball-blue eyes and a face that belonged in a Marvel Comics movie—he was that good-looking.

Well, hello, Mr. Courier Guy.

As she came up the walk, his eyes narrowed into a hostile squint. Clearly, he hadn’t felt a similar jolt of attraction.

“Can I help you?” she asked, stepping onto the porch.

He put his phone away. “Camille Adams?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Finn.” He hesitated. His eyes were now cold and flinty. “Malcolm Finnemore.”

Whoa. She took a second to regroup. This was not how she had pictured the nerdy history teacher. “Oh, uh, Professor Finnemore.”

“I go by ‘Finn.’”

She knew instantly the reason he was here, and why he looked so annoyed. “I missed the courier pickup,” she said. “I had a personal emergency, and—”

“You couldn’t have called? Sent a message?”

Julie came up behind her and mounted the porch steps, a surly expression on her face. “Hey,” she said.

“My daughter, Julie,” Camille said, her face turning bright red. “Julie, this is Professor Finnemore.”

“Glad to meet you.” Julie looked anything but glad. “Excuse me.” She edged past them, pressed the door code, and went inside.