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He was so close she felt as though she ought to talk with him, and yet he didn't look as though he cared if she talked to him or not. So Martha merely pretended to go on cleaning the ledge where the toaster oven rested, even though she'd cleaned it once before.
    She watched from under her lashes as he ate the last of the bagel and wiped his hands with a napkin.
    "Pretty good," he allowed.
    "I'm glad you like it," she said uncertainly. She was ready to pull in the top half of the simulated barn door that comprised the front wall of the booth, but he was in the way, his elbow resting on the counter again.
    "Only one way it could be better," he told her. "You should be using Alaskan fish instead of what you're selling."
    "It's the very best lox," she said, a bit too defensively. "My boss orders it from Los Angeles."
    "Yeah, I know, I know. But it's not really salmon. It comes from the Atlantic Ocean near Nova Scotia or Newfoundland, and biologically it's trout, like all its Atlantic relatives known as salmon. Real salmon comes from the Pacific."
    "Oh," Martha said, surprised. She had never been big on biology. She didn't see what difference it made whether she served salmon or trout as long as it tasted good.
    "You're catering to tourists here, right?"
    She nodded, captivated by the gleam in his brown eyes. They weren't only brown; closer inspection revealed them to be swimming with little golden flecks.
    "And do you know what tourists order in Alaska? Salmon. They take it home in cans. They order smoked salmon to be sent back to them in the Lower Forty-eight. They even pay hundreds of dollars to charter planes and boats and guides so they can fish Alaskan streams to catch Alaskan salmon. And you're selling lox from Los Angeles. That's a shame."
    Martha considered this. The man had a good point.
    "Our smoked salmon would taste great on your bagels. It's smoked with alder wood. You can't beat the flavor."
    "I'm sure it's very good. It's just that I have my orders as to what I should sell here, and I can't take matters into my own hands yet. Maybe later. Where would I buy this salmon?"
    "Oh, there's a little shop down the street. Just go in and they'll show you what they have."
    She flashed him a smile. "I'll do that—someday."
    "Someday," he agreed, and with one last grin he hurried off along the boardwalk toward the docks.
    He was an attractive man, and she wished she'd made some kind of impression on him. She didn't think she had, however. He'd obviously been more interested in talking her into using Alaskan salmon than in anything about her. Perhaps he was one of the local fishermen. He looked rugged and individualistic, the way Martha imagined a fisherman should look. He was only trying to drum up some business, and she couldn't blame him. She'd probably have done the same thing herself.
    Martha slowly made her way to the car, stepping over lots of puddles. By the time she got back to her apartment, she had conjured up a scenario where he came back to buy a bagel the next day and the next and then they cruised off together into the sunset in his boat as she gazed into his brown eyes.
    Which was utterly ridiculous, and she knew it. He was probably only being polite when he said he liked the bagel. And if he gazed into her eyes as he piloted the boat, they'd capsize or worse.
    The trouble was that on her second day here, Martha was very lonely. She'd never been in a town where she didn't know one single person. She'd never had to start from scratch in building a social life. Come to think of it, she wondered if there was any social life around here.
    That was something she'd find out tomorrow. There had to be something to do besides stand around in the rain and wish that weathered, rugged-looking men would carry her off into the sunset.
    Anyway, he probably hated chocolate-chip cookies.

Chapter 3

    Not long after he said goodbye to Martha at the dock, Nick Novak stomped the mud off his feet on the wide wooden porch of his snug