She’d enjoyed the week they spent here with the show a few years ago, getting to know the town and its residents. She’d never known a community to be so protective and supportive of their own.

She came to a stop in front of the diner. Sunshine’s was where locals gathered for breakfast and strong cups of coffee seven days a week. The cook and owner, Reggie, sprinkled a bit of his Jamaican roots into every traditional diner dish. Cat had been especially fond of the banana fritter pancakes.

But the diner as she’d known it was gone. In its place was a muddy hull of a building. People still gathered there, she noted. Reggie was serving up coffee and donuts from a folding card table in front of the building.

The steadfast New England spirit. She could respect that.

Cat eased down the block to the three-story brick building that housed Merry’s police station, community room, and city manager’s office. The building, marred by a line of mud demarking the flood level, was remarkably intact.

She turned off the SUV and flipped down the visor mirror to check her reflection. She’d gone all out in the weaponry department. A subtle smoky eye, bright red lips, perfectly coiffed ponytail. She was dressed casually in leg-hugging jeans and a gray sweater. One did not strut onto the scene of a disaster in four-inch stilettos and a miniskirt.

She’d taken a rash of shit from Gannon when he found out she’d “fucking frolicked through hurricane floodwaters.” Her brother wasn’t exactly thrilled when she mentioned that was exactly why she hadn’t told him in the first place.

And she had a feeling she’d be taking another rash of shit from the man three floors up in a minute. But she was prepared. Catalina King didn’t back down from a challenge. No, she pounded and sawed her way through them and then flipped them the bird once she was on the other side.

She slid out of the SUV and marched up the stairs to the building’s glass doors. It smelled like all old buildings. A little musty, a little dusty, with a hint of polished wood.

Noah Yates’ office was on the top floor, and Cat used all three flights to walk herself through her argument. A King by birth, she mostly resorted to yelling, or—if the situation called for it—throwing something that would make a satisfying smash. She had a feeling that wouldn’t work with Mr. We Don’t Need Your Help.

The desk outside his office was empty, and the door open. Cat took it as an implied welcome. The office itself was empty, but judging by the wallet on the desk, Cat assumed its occupant and his stubborn streak would be returning shortly.