


The very sexy, very injured man in my bed.
I set up my yoga mat and my bolster in my room in front of the big window facing the water and went through a series of stretches to relieve some of the tension and stress. It always made me feel better to lose myself in the movement and focus on my breathing.
In. Hold. Out.
“Fuck me,” a gravelly voice groaned from behind me. “Am I dead?”
I had just stretched down into puppy pose, and the sound of his voice scared the crap out of me. I screeched, causing my dogs to bark like crazy and then flipped around so I was facing him.
And holy hell. His eyes were open, and the look on his face was positively dangerous.
“I figured I’d end up in hell, but your ass is about as close to heaven as it gets.”
I sat up on my knees and then edged closer, slowly. “You’re alive.
He groaned. “Who are you? Where the fuck am I?”
“I’m Calista, and you’re in my apartment. I found you last night and brought you here. Do you remember anything that happened?”
He tried to push himself up, but his body wouldn’t allow it. He fell back against the pillow, both hands going to his head.
“How did you get me here? Where is here? Oh, fuck.”
He cringed and then ran his hand over his face, cursing again. He sure loved the F-word.
“I tried to fix you up as best as I could. They really did a wallop of a job you. You’ve been out of it for about twenty-two hours. I was giving it twenty-four hours before I called 911.”
His eyes snapped open again and pinned me to the spot. “Why didn’t you? Call the cops?”
I sighed and sat back on my heels. “When I found you in the alley, you asked me not to. Then you threw my phone. Cracked my screen, thank you very much. But you were adamant, and it felt right to honor your wishes. There had to be a reason why you wouldn’t want help from authorities.”
He barked out a pained laugh and then groaned again and held his chest with his arm.
“Understatement, sweetheart.”
As vague as that was, I got the gist—whatever had brought him to that alley had been nefarious, and probably felonious. Whoever the bad guys were, he had to have been involved with them in some way, not an innocent passerby.
“Are you involved in something illegal? Is that what happened?”
He groaned again and then turned over, so he was on his side, facing me. “How about you get my phone?”
I quirked my lips and gave him my best impression of an eek. “No phone. Or wallet. I did find your hat and a jacket, which is hanging on the door over there,” I told him, pointing to the closet door. “But there was nothing else. I checked your jacket but didn’t feel anything in your pants.”
My cheeks went flaming hot and I was sure the shade of red on them could rival a fire engine. “I don’t mean it like that.”
He tried to raise an eyebrow but winced. “I don’t guess a hot little thing like you is very interested in feeling around in an old man’s pants.”
“Oh.” I giggled, nervous and flattered by the off-color compliment. “I wouldn’t say you’re an old man. I just didn’t want to move you around anymore than I had to. I had to cut your shirt, though, to check your ribs.”
He groaned again and rubbed his hand over his chest, drawing my attention to the thick ink covering his torso. He caught the direction of my gaze and smirked.
Flaming. Red. Cheeks.

Welcome to Summers in Seaside, a small town located along the Oregon Coast and home of the Seaside Festival. This brand new series of short contemporary romance stories is filled with sun, sand and summer adventures that will tug at your heart strings.

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