Page 8 of Until the Sea Runs Dry

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

There was surprise in his voice, but also something else. Hurt? Pain that she would react to him in such a way.

She studied his face, desperate to read his motives, but all she saw was a man — possibly the most handsome man who had ever walked the Earth — who wanted to help.

Her heart fluttered with anxiety, but she reached out and took his hand.

It felt strong and warm. His sun-kissed skin was smooth and without callouses. He wasn’t in the manual trade, she could tell that about him immediately.

He pulled her to her feet, which she only just noticed were bare. The polish on her toes was chipped in many places, but had once been a French pedicure. The same chipped polish adorned her fingernails. She stared at them, trying to imagine those fingernails when they must have been freshly painted, but like everything else, the memory refused to come.

“Can you walk,” he asked, looking as if he might throw her over his shoulder if she replied that she couldn’t.

She wasn’t sure and took a tentative step. Pain came from all sides, though her feet seemed relatively unscathed by whatever ordeal she had gone through.

“I think so.”

“My car is just over there, on the other side of my house.”

He pointed toward a stunning place set slightly back at an elevated angle from the beach, probably so it could make the most of the spectacular views.

A cross between a ranch and shingle style cottage, it seemed an odd choice of a home for this man. Too homey, almost.

Which was ridiculous.

She knew nothing about him, yet here she was, making assumptions, when the only real fact she had learned at this point was that he had a lot of money.

This house with its own private beach, no less — she could finally make sense of that sign he had been pointing to — wasn’t the kind of place the average person could afford, though it did not fill her with the kind of awe that was its due.

Instead, there was bitterness in her mouth.

She shook her head, trying to clear it away.

This man had shown nothing but kindness after she had trespassed on his property. What were all these bizarre reactions she was having about him?

They walked together, Loki bouncing ahead of them joyfully again, having apparently forgotten their anxiety of the moment, yapping and chasing the gulls that swooped down from the sky. Whatever fears he had picked up on, the dog was too young to remember it for long.

“I’m Logan, by the way,” the man offered when they neared his home.

She gave him a weak smile. “I’d tell you my name if I knew what it was.”

“Names are overrated. Take Loki.” He gestured at the puppy who had found a big branch half buried in the sand and was trying desperately to dig it up with paws that seemed unwilling to cooperate.

“He’ll answer to anything, though of course, when you actually want him to come, you won’t see him for dust.”

He was making small talk. She was grateful for the effort to take her mind off her troubles.

“How long have you had him?”

“Only a week. He was a gift and not a wanted one at that.”

“A dog is a big responsibility. If you’re not ready for it, you should find him a new home,” she said before she could stop herself.

Apparently, she had been an animal rights activist in her previous life.

“I don’t have much choice in the matter. We’re stuck with each other... for now,” he glowered at the dog as Loki came toward them, dragging the branch proudly, having successfully retrieved it from the sand.

“Let go of that thing! You’ll get a sliver in your mouth!”

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