Page 24 of Hot Saltwater Kisses

“Ever considered modeling?” I asked him as I put down the plate and cutlery, along with the thermos jug of what I knew would be tragically weak coffee.

He blinked his eyes open. “Thanks, I think. And the only modeling I’ve done is naked in bed.” The impish quirk to his mouth told me he knew exactly what kind of images it would evoke—sheets twisted around his body, revealing more than they covered. I dropped onto the second bench.

“Exes with an artistic vision?” I hoped I sounded unaffected.

“Just one, but yeah. Photography major.” Logan sat up, looking perfectly at ease. His smile widened to showcase a dimple, and since I couldn’t quite meet his eyes, I busied myself with positioning the plate at a precise halfway point between us.

Logan wasn’t anything to me—I had no cause to be jealous.

I strove for a light tone. “Sounds like he was willing to put in some good, hard work.”

“Hmm, yeah. Lots of hours, unafraid to get his hands dirty.” One corner of Logan’s mouth hitched up just a hint. “Shame he wasn’t a one-model kind of guy.”

Ah, shit.

“I’m sorry,” I offered, and Logan shrugged.

“Nah, it’s been years, and we weren’t together long. I got lucky I found out early, before I could do something stupid like fall for him.” Logan reached for a slice of toast and the knife, watching me from underneath his lashes. “Anyway, the point is—I may still remember some of those model poses.”

This was… flirting. Definitely. Problem was that while others had been hitting clubs and parties, I’d been falling headfirst into Michael’s gravity. I’d never learned how to angle my head just so, an inviting smile dancing around my lips, or how to bounce flirty lines like it was a tennis match. The scant few times I’d hooked up with strangers, I’d mostly relied on shirts with the top three buttons undone and jeans that showed off my ass.

“I’m not very good at people photography,” I said. Ugh.

“Yeah, I guess it’s quite different from what you do.” Logan’s tone was relaxed as he buttered his toast, no obvious sign that I’d kind of shot him down without really meaning to. I just hadn’t known how else to respond. “So it’s always been underwater for you?”

“Just about, yeah.” I helped myself to some diced-up mango. “Funny enough, it kind of started here.”

“Oh, really? With what little I’ve seen of your stuff, I’d have guessed you started taking pictures much younger.”

“I did, yeah. About ten years ago. It was my first time here—as a guest, back then. Did a few dives and loved it.” Fruity sweetness burst on my tongue as I chewed and swallowed. “No camera just yet, couldn’t control my buoyancy for shit. But I tried to take some photos from the pier, went chasing sea sparkle at night. Unsuccessfully so.”

“Wasn’t that around when the resort was all shiny and new?” Logan asked.

“Because it’s such a dump now?”

“I suffer quietly,” he said around a mouthful of melon.

“I’m under the impression there’s not a lot you do quietly.”

As if to prove my point, Logan gave a burst of laughter. “Valid.”

“At least you’re honest,” I said, tucking a smile into the palm of my hand. “And yeah. I was here a few weeks after the resort opened. Just when theBlueberry Seasgot christened.” That made it sound like I came from money, which was exactly what I’d teased him about. “My parents aren’t wealthy, more… comfortable. But it was some kind of early-bird discount—a golfer friend of my dad’s knew the family who owns this place.”

This, and several others. The Prescott chain operated about a dozen luxury hotels and resorts worldwide, all owned by the Prescott family. It was no wonder they rarely visited. In my three years here, the owner couple had stopped by just once, for a nice if somewhatgeneric pep talk to us lowly minions as they’d introduced Richard as our new boss. Not their best choice in terms of staff morale, so I wasn’t a fan.

Logan’s expression flickered, his gaze darting away for a second before it returned, almost contemplative. “You were here when theBlueberry Seasgot christened? Me too. But I don’t think we crossed paths?”

“You were here for that?” As soon as I’d asked, something snagged in my mind.

It was like a picture shifting into sudden focus—my last night at the resort, chasing memories with my camera. A dark beach, torches like drops of gold, and a dark-haired boy with his head thrown back in wild laughter, reaching for a friend.

Wow. What were theodds? But it sure explained that fleeting sense of familiarity when Logan had first shown up.

“Yeah.” His brow furrowed. “So you were at the launching ceremony?”

“No, I missed that. My parents insisted on a hike.” I chewed my honeyed toast and washed it down with some coffee, gaze on Logan’s hands. Should I tell him? But what could I say?‘Hey, I remember you. Took a picture of you, in fact, down at the beach. Why? Uh. So.... the weather?’

Yeah, best not.

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