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Marlowe planted her fists on her hips. “You’d better be talking about a coat for yourself and not the house.” Marlowe had come to live with her grandmother after her stroke to prevent these sorts of things from happening. She lifted her hands in frustration. “Satellite issues aside, why didn’t you call me when the ladder fell instead of bothering the paramedics?”

Grandma waved a dismissive hand. “You never answer your phone when you’re asleep. You’ve got your notifications silenced.”

Okay, Marlowe would have to explain to her grandmother that if a call was an emergency, there were ways to put it through even when notifications were silenced, but for now, she turned to face the firemen. “I’m so sorry about this. I…”

And that’s when her day got even worse.

Because the fireman closest to her was Jace Clark, the guy who broke her heart in high school. He wore the navy-colored jacket of the Lark Springs Fire Department and matching utility pants with a radio clipped at his hip. He, of course, was as gorgeous as he had been back when he had walked out of her life. Tall, broad-shouldered, blond hair, and blue eyes that made him look like he belonged on a California beach with a surfboard in his hand. Which was no doubt what he did while attending UCLA’s med school. What was he doing back in Montana?

He smiled and nodded, a greeting of recognition.

Well, this was great. She was shivering out here in her pajamas, her long blonde hair wild and disarrayed, and her grandmother was stuck on a roof because she’d decided, in the early hours of the morning, to become an impromptu satellite repairman.

Jace turned to her grandmother, and Marlowe let out a low, tormented breath. There ought to be a limit to how many times a woman could look like an idiot in front of an ex-boyfriend—some point in time where the universe metaphorically held up its hands and said, “That’s enough. No more.”

That’s how the universe ought to work.

The universe sucked.

While the firemen were setting up the ladder, Marlowe wiped any possible remnants of mascara from beneath her eyes and smoothed down her hair. Her grandmother saw what she was doing and gave her a thumbs-up signal, which made Jace turn to look back at her.

She dropped her hands to her sides and tried to appear nonchalant.

“One of them might be single,” Grandma called. “Do you want me to ask?”

And that was the other problem with her grandmother. Since her stroke, she had no filter.

“I think they’re all too young for you,” Marlowe called back, and before Grandma could clarify who she was asking for, she added, “I’m going inside to get dressed. I’ll be right back.”

She needed a pair of jeans. And a makeover. Sadly, she only had time to do one of those things.

As she walked toward the house, Grandma said, “I can’t just climb down with all of you staring up at me. You’ll be able to see up my robe. It’s indecent.”

Oh, merciful heavens. The firemen would be talking about this call for weeks. They probably had a system for marking the addresses where the bizarre calls came from. Her house, if it hadn’t already made the list, would get top billing now.

Marlowe stalked inside, cursing fate because she couldn’t bring herself to curse her grandmother.

Grandma meant well, and she loved Marlowe.

Marlowe strode to her room, grabbed a pair of jeans, and slipped them on. A glance in the mirror told her that she looked like she’d been riding a motorcycle through a wind tunnel. A couple of weeks ago, she dyed a streak of her hair purple. It had seemed fun and flirty at the time. Now she wondered if Jace thought it was a cry for attention.

She would have liked to hide in her room until everyone left, but the men probably already thought she was a negligent caregiver, sleeping while her grandmother took to the roof like Santa Claus. Marlowe had to go outside and make sure Grandma got down safely, wardrobe fears notwithstanding. Sheesh. What had Grandma thought would happen when she called the paramedics? And why hadn’t she gotten dressed beforehand?

Marlowe tromped back outside. Despite the fact that Jace’s parents still lived in Lark Springs, she’d managed to avoid running into him for seven years. He’d gone off to college without so much as a text goodbye, without…

Don’t think about the past, she told herself. Jace certainly wasn’t. Best to just get through the encounter.

The lights strobed across the lawn in red pulses, just in case anyone in the neighborhood was still unaware that a fire truck was parked in front of the Partridges’ house. The neighbors were all going to ask about this.

Her grandmother, now wrapped in a blanket, sat on the truck’s rear bumper. Two firemen were chatting with her, checking her vitals, and asking her questions about the president and the date—testing her mental acuity.

“Not only can I tell you who the president is,” Grandma said, “I can tell you who should’ve won instead and why.” Then she launched into a political rant.

Yep. That was her grandmother.

Jace strode toward Marlowe with a confident rhythm. The boy who once drove her to homecoming in his beat-up pickup now wore a calm, practiced expression.

“Hey,” he said quietly.