One Wrong Turn to Mr. Right (Home for the Holidays #2)

1. Lena

LENA

My GPS flagged my arrival in Cedar Hills with the same clipped efficiency I applied to my work, its synthetic voice announcing, “You have arrived at your destination,” just as I coasted to a stop on the narrow shoulder of Main Street.

I silenced it, the click of the power button echoing louder than I expected in the quiet morning air. I eased the car forward, scanned the uneven pavement, noted the inconsistent banking of curves, and observed the faded white stripe along the edge exactly as the briefing had described.

Late spring sun filtered through the pines, painting the road in dappled gold, and for a moment I allowed myself to appreciate the play of light. Then I tucked the thought away. Five days to assess, two to recommend, then back to New York. The sooner I started, the sooner I left.

My lower back had been screaming at me for the last two hours of the drive, and I just wanted to get the initial meeting out of the way.

Main Street curved through Cedar Hills like an old riverbed rather than a modern highway, charming, perhaps, but hardly efficient.

Low brick storefronts rubbed shoulders with clapboard cottages, their porches lined with rocking chairs and planters spilling geraniums. A green-painted bench sat under the clock near the crossroads: 11:02, still on time.

My itinerary said I was supposed to stay at the Cedar Inn, which was only three minutes on foot from Town Hall.

Check in. Unpack. Meet the Administrator.

I had done this twenty-seven times in eight states over the last three years. I knew the drill.

Even so, the town was not what I expected.

The Cedar Inn’s lobby smelled of cinnamon air freshener and old wool carpet.

At the desk I greeted the clerk, snagged my key, and typed in the Wi-Fi password scrawled on a dry-erase board.

Then I locked the door behind me in Room 217, a modest suite with a small writing desk and a window overlooking the town green.

I placed my suitcase by the nightstand, pulled out my leather folio, and thumbed through the accident reports and elevation diagrams I had printed from HQ.

Everything was there except a snapshot of texture: the smell of pine resin, the decay of moss at the pavement edge, the low hum of cicadas.

I left the inn and followed the sidewalk to town hall.

The modest brick building, trimmed in white with sky-blue doors, stood firm against the sun.

I pushed through the glass double doors and stepped into cool fluorescent light.

The scent was a blend of paper, coffee, and freshly waxed floors.

A gray-haired receptionist peered over her glasses. “Ms. Mercer?”

I nodded. “Lena Mercer.”

She tapped her keyboard. “Carol Winters will see you now.” The chair squeaked behind her, and she gestured toward a side door.

I walked down a short hallway and entered a conference room dominated by a long oak table.

Maps, accident stats, and faded aerial photos were strewn across it, corners weighted by pens and paperweights shaped like bears.

A woman stood at the head of the table, pouring coffee into a paper cup. She looked up when I entered.

“Lena Mercer?” she asked, extending a firm hand.

“Pleasure to meet you. You must be Carol Winters.”

“Town Administrator,” she said, settling into a chair. Her jeans were practical, her hair pulled back in an efficient bun. No-nonsense shoes, no-nonsense air. Exactly the sort of person who hired someone like me.

She pushed a stack of documents my way. “Fifteen years of data, accident reports, seasonal traffic volumes, drainage maps, even citizen emails.” She poured another cup of coffee and offered it. “Black, right?”

“Perfect.” The dark liquid brightened my focus.

I leafed through the files. “This is comprehensive,” I said, impressed despite myself.

Carol’s expression tightened. She took a breath. “There’s been a change. We need a full safety study and a ten-phase implementation plan, not the quick week-long assessment your contract covers.”

My heart sank, and the coffee turned bitter in my mouth. “My contract says one week, five days for fieldwork, two for recommendations.”

She slid a manila folder across the table. “Your director, Diane Park, signed an update last Friday. Twelve weeks.”

Oh, there was no way.

I stared at the crisp signature at the bottom of the memo. “Three months?”

Carol nodded, her face sheepish even under the professionalism.

“The council wants depth. Upper Ridge Road is our lifeline, winter closures strand residents, accidents disrupt emergency services, and tourism declines every time something goes wrong. We can’t afford for anything to go wrong, and we were told that you are the best.”

My mind flooded with conflict: Boston in July, Seattle in August, the sublet on Park Avenue. Diane had moved me like a chess piece again. I pressed my fingers into the table to steady myself. “This isn’t feasible on my end. I have other obligations.”

Carol softened. “She assured us she’d rearranged things. I’m sorry if that caused you issues.”

Rerouting my entire summer was hardly just an issue.

I inhaled, trying not to let my irritation show. It wasn’t her fault. “I’ll need to speak with your director.”

“Of course.” She offered me a card, stamped with the town hall’s emblem and her direct line. “Meanwhile, we arranged a furnished apartment. The Cedar Inn couldn’t accommodate a long stay, and we didn’t want you commuting from the next county.”

Would have been nice to know before I checked in.

I tucked the card into my folio and rose. Three months in Cedar Hills. This was not how I operated, but I forced a smile anyway. “Thank you, Carol. I’ll be in touch.”

That evening, I set up my laptop on the desk in Room 217 and reviewed the slide deck I would present tomorrow. I printed a few extra copies for handouts and double-checked the data.

At 6:30 the next morning I crossed Main Street under overcast skies and entered the community center. The foyer smelled of damp coats and strong coffee. Folding chairs lined the room, and a long table at the back held muffins, bagels, and fruit.

Already more people had gathered than I would have expected for a Tuesday morning: retirees in pastel windbreakers, parents with toddlers in strollers, a smattering of business-casual types clutching leather portfolios.

My attention caught briefly at the back of the room, and not because the man leaning there was trying to stand out. It was the opposite of that, really.

He wasn’t speaking, or fidgeting, drawing attention to himself the way the others in the room were. But there was something about him that pulled my focus anyway. Like the room had quietly arranged itself around him.

He was tall. That was the first thing I noticed.

Tall enough that even leaning against the wall he was still a few inches bigger than most of the people in the room.

He was broad in the shoulders, and wearing a faded flannel that shouldn’t have accentuated the toned muscles in his arms the way that it did.

His hair was dark, messy, and shone even in the fluorescent lighting. His jaw was sharp, and rough with stubble.

I jumped when I met his eyes, because somehow in my musing, I hadn’t realized that he was staring at me with dark slate eyes.

I pulled on my blazer and arranged my notes on the podium at the front.

At 7:00 Carol strode in, greeting locals by name.

She tapped the microphone. “Good morning. Thank you all for coming. Today, Ms. Lena Mercer will conduct our comprehensive road safety study presentation. Let’s give her our full attention. ”

The murmur quieted. I clicked to the first slide: a map of Upper Ridge Road, red dots indicating every documented accident in the past decade. “Upper Ridge Road has a troubling incident rate, especially through the upper bend.” I advanced to a 3D model showing water pooling on worn asphalt.

A senior man in a denim jacket raised his hand. “Flooding’s only part of it. We get black ice in winter.”

“I’ve read that in the reports as well,” I said.

“That’s why the plan includes a redesign to improve drainage and prevent ice buildup.

” I clicked to the next slide: cross-sections of road widening, with new asphalt and a slight grade adjustment, plus an added drainage culvert every two hundred feet.

A woman in the back raised her hand tentatively before speaking. “What about the overlook? You’d remove half the trees and the picnic area if you did what these pictures show.”

I’d already anticipated push back on this. People in small towns like this had a tendency to hang on to the nostalgia of their spaces.

“The overlook is valuable to the town’s identity. My design maintains the pull-off area, but shifts the roadway slightly uphill. We can plant native shrubs and install observation platforms to enhance safety without totally sacrificing the view.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but then a powerful voice cut in.

“The problem’s the bend, not the entire road.

” Somehow, the deep tenor of his voice didn’t surprise me at all.

His grey eyes met mine once more, but this time, I didn’t look away.

“I’m Ethan Talbot. I run Talbot Automotive down the street.

I’ve pulled cars out of that ditch for fifteen years.

Fix that one curve and you solve ninety percent of the issues. ”

I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Talbot. Accident recovery is one aspect, but my assessment follows engineering standards and traffic models that consider long-term safety and capacity too. Inconsistent widths create transition hazards, drivers jerk the wheel at sudden narrow spots, not just at the curve.”

He stepped forward. “Or you could install guardrails, repave the bend, and put up clearer signage. That’s cheaper, faster, and gets drivers home safe at night. It’s a hell of a lot better than doing body surgery for a broken finger.”

Heads turned around the room, and a few nodded in agreement.