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actually talking to me. “You’re talking to me.”
    “Is that okay?”
    “Yeah. Why haven’t you before?”
    “Words can be overrated. You can learn a great deal about someone just from watching them.”
    I had noticed his tendency to silently observe. The idea that he’s been observing me makes me feel all warm inside.
    “Makes sense, I guess. So what’s changed? Why the switch from observing to talking?”
    “You hit me in the face with a funnel cake.”
    “And?”
    No answer. I say, “That’s it? I hit you in the face with a funnel cake. So any fried-dough product would have brought this about, or was it specifically fried dough with swordfish?”
    “Are you ready to go home?”
    “You’re not going to commit to your preference for swordfish funnel cakes over all the other funnel cakes in the land? Your prerogative. Yes, I am ready. And thank you for the ride.”
    His hand on the small of my back is setting off little electric bursts under my skin like static shock, but it doesn’t hurt, it feels good, really, really good. He escorts me to the parking lot. A beauty of a motorcycle is sitting just near the door.
    “Is that yours?”
    “Yeah, you okay with that?”
    Oh, the visuals of us on that bike. “Yep.”
    He climbs on and hands me his helmet. There’s something awfully sexy about a man on a bike. Sexier still with my thighs cradling his ass. The bike roars to life, my arms finding their way around his hard, flat stomach. I never want to get off this bike, ever. It feels nice, the salty mist brushing over my skin as we drive along the bay. Maybe I should get a motorcycle, but I suspect I won’t like the ride nearly as much solo.
    We reach my house far too soon. Climbing off, I hand my helmet to Logan, who stores it. He follows me to the door; my stomach is in knots and my lips are still tingling from his kiss. I turn to him, the pad of his thumb rubs along my lower lip.
    “Good night.”
    And before I can stay a word, he’s strolling back to his bike.
    Yup, I would definitely call it a good night.

    The following morning I wake up with so much pent-up energy, no doubt a side effect of Logan’s staggering kiss, that I decide to take a run. I love running these days, quite the opposite of my feelings toward the activity when I was younger, which was that it should only be done when being chased. I took laziness to a whole other level as a child. My usual route is along the bay, three miles down and three miles back. As much as my body loves the run, my mind is on Logan, more specifically on his behavior.
    I remember the first day I saw him. It was a Thursday night, and fairly late, when the door to Tucker’s opened and in he walked. He was a bit less shaggy then, but as soon as I looked into those green eyes, something in me shifted. I can admit it to myself that I have, from the very beginning, been attracted to him. His arrival stirred interest in the town for a few days, mostly because he was a new face, but there wasn’t the rapt interest of the ladies like with Jake’s arrival six months earlier. As sad as it is to say, I know the lack of female interest in Logan is due solely to the fact that you can’t see his face. As far as anyone knows, he’s covering up some hideous deformity under all the facial hair, but I don’t care. There is something about his quiet presence that really gets to me and so it came as a bit of a shock, and a little hurtful, that he chose to keep quiet around me and only me.
    Last night he broke that silence.
    Technically he still isn’t speaking to me, that brief exchange last night hardly constitutes conversation, but now he’s kissing me senseless—a change I can wholeheartedly get behind—but why?
    I suppose I could continue down the path we’re on and allow the man to blow my head off with kisses despite the fact that we really don’t know each other, but that seems a bit dysfunctional. Which means that I am going to have to suck it up and initiate