“Pepper O’Brien?” Bert exclaimed. “I can’t have an O’Brien working for me.”

“You already had an O’Brien working for you.” Just not the one he realized. “And really, it’s actually been a nice change of pace. It was—”

Clamping her mouth closed before she could declare nearly getting run over by a car fun, Pepper gave Bert a pleading look.

“Give me another chance.” Her eyes flicked out the front windows of the restaurant. No less than three police cars and two motorcycles surrounded the scene of the accident.

Flashing lights. Pedestrians milling about. If this had been Hollywood, tongues would already be wagging and rumors flying.

Pretty soon the gossips would have had Pepper playing chicken with cars and causing accidents left and right.

“It’s not about chances.” Bert shook his head. “Look, you seem like a nice girl, but your father is—”

Just a typical workaholic dad, she wanted to say.

She didn’t.

Because O’Briens didn’t air their dirty laundry. Not unless it sold movie tickets.

Forcing a smile, Pepper said, “I understand.” She hesitated. “Do you know anyone else who might be looking for . . .”

She trailed off, the “someone like me” unsaid.

Bert grimaced. “I believe Rose’s Flower Emporium is looking for an investor.”

“Ah,” she said, eyes sliding closed. “Thanks.” And with a heart that felt significantly heavier than it had several hours before, Pepper walked from the restaurant.

Derek was waiting for her.

He’d taken his turn to talk with the police after she’d given her statement, and despite the happy dance her heart broke into at the sight of all his gorgeousness, she had been hoping Derek would have gone back to whatever ridiculously sexy hole he’d crawled out of.

Wishes, rainbows, unicorns, and all that nonsense.

She sighed.

“Let me give you a ride home,” he said, pushing off the wall he’d been leaning on and crossing over to her.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“I’m used to limping.” Not that she was about to admit her ankle hurt.

“Well, I’m used to driving.” Derek smiled and it melted her insides into goo she futilely tried to keep in place. But it oozed through her fingers, warmed her tummy. Lower.

Pepper tripped.

It was pure chance that she managed to right herself before her face met pavement. That and Derek snagging her arm to steady her.

A barely withheld groan. She was so tired of looking like an idiot.

Correction: she was especially tired of looking like an idiot in front of Derek today.

With a series of inner curse words that would have certainly gotten her a lead story on the gossip columns, Pepper yanked free and took off down the sidewalk.

“I’m used to driving. Particularly when my best friend’s sister has nearly been run over,” he added, hurrying to catch up when she turned the corner and headed for the beach.

Her rented cottage was less than a mile away and backed up to a public stretch of oceanfront. All cool breezes, salt-tinged air, and white sand everywhere.

She loved it.

Which is why Pepper wanted to be home. Alone. In bed. With a book and a gallon of wine.

But when Derek merely kept pace with her, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing the banter. “You rescue best friends’ sisters from being crushed by cars often, then?”

“At least once a week.”

Dimple alert.

An idiot-inducing double dimple alert as Derek unleashed the full force of his megawatt smile on her.

Pepper concentrated her remaining functioning brain cells on navigating the street and not tripping . . . and definitely not rubbing herself against him. Because she wanted to rip off her clothes and plaster every inch of herself against every inch of his.

Every. Single. Inch.

And . . . she was in the middle of the street. Now that would certainly make a gossip show.

She’d been reared amongst Hollywood’s finest and should be immune to all forms of masculine presence. Unfortunately, her brain and body and—grr—heart had never gotten on board with ignoring the yumminess that was Derek.

“Hey,” he said, breaking into the jumble of her swirling emotions. “I thought we were doing pretty good on the whole I-talk-then-you-talk thing.”

Pepper glanced up.

Then wished she hadn’t. Because Derek was staring down at her, eyes gentle, and, oh no, they couldn’t have that.

The only reason she hadn’t been shredded to a pulp in her teenaged years was because he’d barely acknowledged her existence. This—being charming and sweet, hell, one might even say flirting—and she’d crumple like a cheap ass suitcase under the weight of Derek’s . . . well, his Derek-ness.

She’d watched many a girl stronger than her fall. Painfully.

“Got it. You’re an expert damsel-in-distress rescuer,” she said, her tone mild—though much less mild than she wanted, which was damn near acerbic. “So there’s that. Kudos to you.”

“Hey, slow down.” He caught her arm when she’d put a few feet of distance between them. “Let me at least walk you where you’re going, Pep.”

“My name is Pepper,” she snapped before catching herself and forcing a lighter tone. “Or Ms. O’Brien. Or even ‘Hey you,’ but it most certainly isn’t Pep.”

His eyes locked on hers, searching intently. Pepper felt a twisting in her gut, as though Derek could see straight through her. He raised a brow. “This not liking the name Pep—is it a recent development?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “I’ve always hated it.” She started walking again when he didn’t reply.

Andy had called her Pep and since she wasn’t talking or thinking about her ex-fiancé—who’d had an affinity for anyone in panties that wasn’t her—there wasn’t any point in discussing it. She’d broken things off after discovering what he’d done, but it still hurt. She’d loved the jerk, and he’d thrown that aside.

After a brief hesitation, Derek followed her down the sidewalk.

Their feet scuffed against the sand scattered along this stretch of pavement, the sounds of the ocean beginning to overpower those of Stoneybrook’s downtown.

“Why don’t you like it?” he asked softly.

“It’s not me.” That she’d answered him surprised her. Usually she played off the name, despite not liking it. Not wanting to make a fuss over a silly nickname when Pepper made enough of a fuss in her wake.

But, truth was, she hated that stupid epithet with a vengeance. It was too cheerful. Too carefree. Too much lightness and not enough calamity.

Derek shoved his hands into his pockets and blew out a breath. “And the reason you never said anything was?”

“It didn’t really matter.” A pause. “And Andy seemed to like it.” She shrugged, determinedly pushing all thoughts of Andy the asshole away. “I never expected it to stick. Plus, Paul thought it was fitting. He always said I’ve got pep in my—”

“Step,” Derek said. “I remember. Because you were always so happy.”

His tone was so gentle that, for a moment, Pepper’s eyes stung. But she blinked the tears away as she did everything else.

With sheer determination.

Happy. Yeah, not exactly.

“Of course I was happy,” she said. “How could an O’Brien be anything but?”

She’d had a fiancé from an important family, a father who spent loads of money on her, and . . . that was just it exactly. She had what?

Not a career. Not anything to claim as her own. She would never be anything more than a flighty daughter or wife.

Which was most of why she’d called off her engagement.

The other, of course, being that Andy had been screwing his assistant. Or rather assistants.

Her feet stopped moving. Pepper stared at the dune ahead, one last pile of sand between her and the peace of the ocean.

Derek touched her cheek.

Jumping, Pepper’s eyes went to his.

“You don’t seem happy now,” he murmured.

This man saw way too much.

“You’re wrong.” She stepped back, crossed the road, and began climbing the path that led over the dune. “I am happy. In fact, I’m so content that—”

“You’re working as a human directional specialist?” he called.

That threw her for a moment. She glanced back and saw a smile tugging the edges of Derek’s mouth up. It blinded her temporarily, like the sun reflecting off a cell phone’s screen.

Annoyed, she forced her gaze to the ocean. Stupid, pushy, arrogant, sexy—

“A human directional specialist,” he repeated as he closed the space between them. “I saw it on a show once. This guy had a sign and . . . never mind. What’s going on? Why are you in Stoneybrook? Is this about the Ferrari?”

“You know about the Ferrari?”

He raised a brow, and Pepper mentally smacked herself.

Of course he knew about the Ferrari.

Destroy one film set with a really expensive car and everyone was a critic.

She bent and slid off her sandals, reveling for a second in the feel of the warm grains of sand sliding between her toes before taking off in the direction of her cottage.

“It was pretty sensational,” Derek said and if he sounded amused, it wasn’t as if she could begrudge him. More than one gossip show and blog had gotten fodder out of the incident.

“Yes.”

Millions of dollars in damaged equipment. One totaled luxury vehicle.

This was why she didn’t have nice things.

“Three cameras and an entire set in one fell swoop.” He tilted his head, dimples out in full force. “That was pretty impressive, even for you Pep, er, Pepper.”

“True.”

Thankfully, no one had been hurt, which was the sole detail from the incident that she’d been able to take solace in.

She’d gone to set early to prepare for her scene, for the first job she’d actually had to audition for. The director had been one of Hollywood royalty—flush enough to not be swayed by her father’s influence.

Her car had been in the shop, recovering from an episode with her mailbox, but never mind that.

Since her father’s driver hadn’t been around, she’d thought to handle things herself. She only had to borrow one of the family cars.

How hard could it be, after all, to drive in Los Angeles?

Very hard, apparently. Especially if a woman happened to be taken in by shiny red paint and sleek lines, but was unfamiliar with a stick shift.

She really should have taken an Uber.

When she didn’t say anything further, Derek sighed and continued to walk beside her. “So I’m guessing this isn’t about the Ferrari, is it?”

“Well sniffed, Sherlock,” she said, tapping her nose.

Because of course it wasn’t about a car.

It was about making a name for herself, dammit. Which was something that Derek should understand, considering last she’d heard he’d bucked his family’s conventions—legal advice for the rich and famous—and struck out into business on his own—documentary films production.

“Oh, honey, what did you get yourself into now?”

Even if she had managed to ignore the condescending use of honey, Pepper’s temper still would have flared at his arrogance.

“I didn’t get into anything. I’m trying to find a job.” She spun around and poked a finger into his chest, determinedly ignoring the way his muscles flexed at the contact. “How is that wrong? You’re the one who came barreling in, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Pale blue eyes sparked with frustration. “I saved your life,” he said, his tone hot. “Usually that garners a thank you, not a dressing down.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t completely wrong.

“Thank you,” she said.

But he wasn’t completely right, either.

“Now butt the hell out of my life and worry about your own.”

She turned and walked away.

Or tried to.

“Oof.” Pepper hadn’t been paying attention to the ocean . . . or its waves, which, sigh, she should have known better.

In less than a second, she was on her butt, cold water crashing over her. She pushed her hands against the wet sand and came up sputtering.

The masculine hand on her arm made her life. So. Much. Better.

Cue sarcasm.

Derek helped her to her feet and guided her a few feet up shore. She was soaked through, dripping wet and squelching with each step.

“You’re right,” he said, once they were a safe distance from errant waves. “I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s just— You’re Paul’s sister.”

As if she needed the reminder.

“Thank you.” And, unsure if she was thanking him for saving her again or for the pseudo-apology, Pepper slipped free of his grip. Keeping a careful eye on the ocean, she strode away.

Away from cars and men and waves that stole dramatic exits.

She left everything on that section of beach.