Friction. Samantha Hunter

interesting and varied history, you know. There are several tours you can take, but much of the art tells the story as well.”

      “I’m looking forward to learning about it.”

      “Let me get you registered and show you to your room. We have a number of brochures that outline some tours and destinations that might interest you. We also provide equipment, kayaks and canoes, crabbing supplies and other things to keep you busy. Or you can just be quiet and relax, if that’s your pleasure.”

      Logan nodded, knowing he would have to partake in at least some of the activities she discussed—he had to keep up appearances. Picking up his bags, he started to follow the woman past the large spiral staircase into the main room, where he could see the antique cherry registration desk, behind which was located a small office, discreetly hidden from view.

      No one else was around; the other guests were probably out enjoying themselves. But before they could take more than a few steps the door opened again, and they both turned around to look.

      Logan’s mind went blank when he saw the woman who stepped inside. Tall, almost as tall as he was at six foot two, she was breathtaking—and strong, carrying two huge suitcases as though they were nothing. He observed the smooth, supple muscles in her upper arms and raised an eyebrow. Her short hair was a little spiky at the top, an interesting contrast that accentuated her fine, classic features.

      She wore large, dark sunglasses perched on a perfectly shaped nose, so he couldn’t see her eyes, but it was her mouth that fascinated him. Lipstick-free, not too full, her lips looked sweet and soft enough to eat, coming together in a natural pout that had him wetting his own lips as if in anticipation of a taste.

      When their hostess moved past him to launch into her welcome routine, the woman pulled her sunglasses off and Logan was mesmerized by the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. A small smile warmed the woman’s cool features as she held out her hand to the hostess.

      “Hi, I’m Sarah Jessup. I’m sorry I’m here a little early, but I didn’t know how long the drive would take. I hope it isn’t any trouble.” She looked at Logan, and then back to the hostess. “If you’re busy, I can walk down to the beach or catch some lunch.”

      “Oh, no, no, dear, you’re fine. Come on in, and we can get you and Mr. Sullivan all situated. It’s nice for guests to meet each other, as you all will bump into each other during your stay. I do believe you and Mr. Sullivan are both scheduled for extended visits—two weeks, is that right?”

      She looked questioningly at him, and he confirmed her claim with a short nod. The new arrival also looked back at him, then stepped forward and held out her hand.

      “Well, then, hello, Mr. Sullivan. I’m Sarah.”

      Her voice was clear and pleasant, and he detected a strong northern accent—pure New York City. It sounded good on her. She was a tough cookie, he’d bet. And a delicious one, too. He smiled.

      “Logan, please. Nice to meet you.”

      As he closed his hand around hers, electricity sparked between them, and Logan felt a heat invade his body that had nothing to do with the summer weather. He watched her azure eyes darken—she’d felt it, too. She dropped his hand a little abruptly and, breaking eye contact, turned back to Karen and her bags.

      Intrigued, he watched the tall beauty pick up her luggage. His eyes followed the sway of her hips as she moved past him, the confident stride of her long, long legs. Logan thought he might have to make some time for fun after all.

      SARAH LOOKED out the window of the quaint yellow room that she’d been shown to and admired the gardens below. A large fig tree stood beneath her window, shadowing the grass below. She licked her lips—she loved the sensual, sweet taste of figs.

      Though it wasn’t something she talked about much, she loved gardens. She used to spend hours walking the gorgeous pathways of the Brooklyn botanical gardens, and she’d always especially enjoyed the pockets of green among the city concrete where people grew tomatoes on stoops and had window and rooftop gardens, some of them very elaborate. Pops had had a rose garden on his patio that professionals would have envied. He used to give her roses to take home every summer; her grandfather was the only man who’d ever given her flowers.

      Her bags were not unpacked yet, and she turned to open them where they lay on the large, high bed. The room was small, but light and cheerful. Ian was right, the resort was more like a bed-and-breakfast than a resort—she had expected flashy, impersonal accommodations and crowds, bars and beaches, but this was very personal and…quiet. Maybe a little too quiet for her taste.

      She wouldn’t admit it to anyone but herself, especially not to Ian or anyone she worked with, but she missed the city and the beautiful borough of Brooklyn where she’d spent the past ten years. Living in Norfolk wasn’t bad, but being here, where it was so slow and un-crowded, well, it made her nervous. Antsy.

      The teeny apartment she’d had in the city wasn’t much, a small flat on the third floor of a converted brownstone on St. Mark’s Avenue, one of those built for the burgeoning working class. It was homey, though she was never much for interior decorating. But then again, she didn’t need much.

      She’d spent most of her time alone, and when she didn’t want to be alone, she could open her window and listen to the noise on the street below. When she’d wanted company, she could sit on her stoop and chat with her neighbors, or go for a walk along Flatbush Avenue, listening to the people around her chatter in an array of languages. She’d picked up some Spanish living there, but didn’t know enough to really communicate fluently.

      Sometimes she’d treat herself to a Junior’s cheesecake—reputed to be the best in the world—and stop by to see how old Mr. Sanchez was doing. He’d managed to hold his ground and not be pushed out of his lifelong home as building owners started renovating in order to raise rents and attract wealthier, younger Manhattanites. Just a month after she’d moved, he’d passed away from pneumonia.

      She wondered who’d moved into the place now that he was gone, and a strange sense of hollowness overwhelmed her. She thought of his smile as she stared down at the fig tree, and spun away from the window, needing to get out and away from her dark thoughts.

      Brochures littered the desk by one of the tall windows, things to see and do, but she walked past them. She just needed to escape for the moment. If she was going to be stuck here, she had to find something to do, but touristy activities weren’t usually her thing.

      True to Ian’s promise, she had seen a sign when she arrived instructing guests to shut off their cell phones, and there wasn’t a phone or a TV in the room—one phone and one TV were in a central room downstairs. The only computer in the place seemed to be the one the hostess had used to process reservations; otherwise it was really a low-tech operation.

      She was going to get the jitters if she didn’t keep herself busy. Curiously, an image of Logan popped into her mind as she walked out of her room.

      2

      LOGAN LAY on the sand, letting the heat soak into his skin as he forced himself to be oblivious to everything and anything as he sank into an afternoon nap. Focusing on the repetitive wash of waves rolling onto the shore, his muscles seemed to loosen, the sand cradling his body like a hug.

      Naps were a luxury he almost never allowed himself, but he had to appear to be a committed vacationer. Just a guy trying to decompress from a very stressful time at work.

      A shuffling in the sand interrupted his meditation and he opened his eyes to see a deliciously curved female bottom clad in the briefest of shorts, the cuffs of which graced the undersides of shapely thighs. Those were some legs. He could just make out the edge of a white bandage covering one thigh and frowned—she’d hurt herself.

      It didn’t stop him from admiring the feminine musculature as she braced herself in the deep sand, her bare feet planted firmly as she bent over the task of opening the beach chair that she’d apparently rented from the vendor on the sidewalk. The chair was not cooperating.