Chapter One

Even with the kitchen faucet running and an Indigo Girls CD turned up high, Fran Bishop heard the crunch of gravel as a car rolled up the driveway on the other side of the building. Partly because she'd taken advantage of the unseasonably warm late-September afternoon and had opened the windows and sliding-glass door, but she'd also been waiting for the sound—for Mitch Matthews.

He'd booked the best room in the Oceanside Bed-and-Breakfast, the third-floor Orca Suite, for five weeks. The same room he always chose. This time though, he was coming to stay at the tail end of tourist season and was alone. He'd never stayed here more than a week, and never without a beautiful woman to keep him company.

Most tourists were long gone. Starting tomorrow, until the annual Cranberry Festival the third week of October, Mitch was Fran's only guest.

The car door slammed. With more anticipation than she had any right to feel, Fran shut off the music, dried her hands on her apron and then hung it on the hook behind the basement door. She barely had time to straighten her braid and smooth her yellow blouse over her dark green cords before Mitch's footsteps thudded across the planking of the ocean-view deck. The knocker hit the door twice—Mitch never used the buzzer—with crisp, staccato raps.

Already smiling and stifling the urge to hurry, she moved through the dining and great rooms and across to the entry. She opened the door. "Welcome, Mitch."

"Hello, Fran."

His grin was as irresistible as ever. He moved past her, bringing the tang of the sea air with him. At five feet ten in her socks, she wasn't small, yet Mitch stood a good five inches taller. A big, powerful man and handsome to boot.

While she silently admired his broad shoulders and strong jaw, he set down two large bags and a laptop computer case.

"It's good to see you," he said, his gray eyes mirroring the words.

She felt her cheeks warm with pleasure. "And you. When you didn't book a room over the summer, I thought that, after five years, you were tired of Cranberry or the Oceanside."

"I'll never get tired of you, the Oceanside or the Oregon coast," he said. "Thank God for this oasis."

"Oasis, huh? Can I quote you on my Web site?"

"Sure." He sniffed the air. "Something smells good, but around here, it usually does."

Mitch's ability to see the best in a person and offer genuine compliments, combined with his looks and skills as a motivational speaker and writer, were what drew people to him. He certainly made Fran feel good. Her smile widened.

"What you smell is my work in progress," she said. "I'm working on a recipe for the Cranberry cook-off, the event that kicks off the Cranberry Festival."

Mitch nodded. "I read about that on the 'net. Sounds interesting."

"It always is. Especially this year. The Food Network will be here, filming the contest."

The publicity would bring attention to Cranberry, where the locals depended heavily on tourism to survive. Fran hoped to be this year's grand-champion ribbon, which meant winning in her category and then beating out other category winners in a final round. The overall winner earned ten thousand dollars, among other prizes. Running the bed-and-breakfast was expensive and, with no income November through January, she barely kept afloat. And, after recently putting on a new roof…The cost had been staggering. Her savings were nearly gone, and prize money would go a long way toward replenishing them.

But better than the money was the chance of interesting the Food Network in a cookbook of her own, an otherwise near-to-impossible feat for an unknown cook.

"I really want to win the grand championship," she said.

"With your culinary skills?" Mitch smacked his lips. "You're a shoo-in."

She laughed. "Wait until you taste my entry before you say that. But if you do, you can't tell a soul what it is. I don't want any of my friends stealing my idea."

"Your secret will be safe with me. I noticed another car in the driveway. I didn't realize anyone else would be here this late in the season."

"Only one couple, the Hortons from Sacramento. They're upstairs now, but they'll be down for the wine-and-cheese social." The get-together was a daily, late-afternoon ritual Fran offered her guests. "They've read your books and attended one of your seminars at the hospital where they work. They're eager to meet you."

"Just what I wanted to do, make small talk with strangers," Mitch muttered with a pained expression.

Since he'd always been an outgoing, friendly man, this surprised Fran. "I shouldn't have mentioned your name to them," she said. "But you always like meeting new people and I thought…Never mind. They're leaving tomorrow after breakfast. Then you're my only guest until the Cranberry Festival." For that popular week all seven rooms at the Oceanside were reserved.

"That's what I hoped for—solitude. My editor expects a book the first of November and I'll be finishing the thing while I'm here."

"The book I read about, on finding your bliss?" As a reasonably contented but sometimes lonely woman, Fran looked forward to gaining insight into living a happier life. "Sounds like an interesting topic."

His three previous books were filled with a wisdom and common sense she admired. She kept autographed copies of each on the bookcase that divided the dining room from the great room, for guests looking for something to read during their stay.

"It's interesting, all right."

Though he was smiling again, Fran couldn't help but sense a great heaviness, as though he carried the weight of who knew what on his back. She wanted to reach out, brush the hair off his forehead and somehow ease his burdens, but she had no business touching him.

Copyright © 2007 by Ann Schuessler.