If Forever Comes (26 page)

What was I doing here?

Was I fool? Because any wise woman would know
a man didn’t take her back to his house to talk. Logan wasn’t
looking for a friend. He was looking for something I wasn’t sure I
was ready to give.

He reached up to the visor and pushed the
button to lower the garage door. The loud chain ran, spinning on
wheels as the door slowly settled to the concrete floor. In it came
a silence, a claustrophobic sense that made me want to jump out of
my skin.

Logan patted me on the thigh. A flirty smile
curved his upper lip as he looked over at me. “Come on, Liz, let’s
get some dinner, I’m starving.”

We climbed out. He spun his keyring on his
index finger as he walked toward the door that led into the house.
He stepped aside as he held it open for me. “After you.”

Dropping my head, I acquiesced, ignoring the
warning blaring within my head.

I promised I would try, and I knew I had to
see this through.

Stepping inside, I found myself standing
within cluttered piles of dirty clothes that sat in heaps on the
floor in the small, enclosed laundry room that led into his
house.

Self-conscious laughter seeped into the small
room from behind. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. I wasn’t
expecting company, although I have to admit, I’m really happy to
have it.”

From over my shoulder, I forced a smile as I
sidestepped around the mess. “Don’t worry about it. You should see
mine. I think I have enough laundry to keep me busy for the next
three months.”

He placed a warm hand on the small of my back
as he guided me, bringing us out into a short hall. “To the left,”
he instructed, prodding me forward with the heat of his
hand.

A sharp breath left me. I wasn’t sure I liked
it.

I hurried ahead.

He dropped his hand and began flipping on
lights as we headed toward the front of his house. We stepped into
the family room and he wove around to the far wall to flip on the
light.

His home was much like mine, modest, the tiny
rooms stuffed with so many mementos that it was cluttered in the
most comfortable way.

I’d been here several times, dropping Lizzie
off or picking her up, and of course I’d been inside during the
barbeque last weekend. But being here, alone with him, it felt
entirely different. Claustrophobic. Confined.

From where he stood on the other side of the
couch, he smiled at me. “It’s quiet in here without the girls
running around, isn’t it?”

I guess maybe he felt it, too.

“Yeah,” I said. Too quiet.

I fixed a plaintive smile on him, not really
knowing what I was doing here, wondering why I stayed.

God, I was so messed up. Wrecked. I realized
it a long time ago as I’d been lost in my misery. As my mind had
begun to clear, I’d accepted it. Maybe even understood
it.

My eyes narrowed as I studied Logan from
across the room, and I wondered if he saw it in me. Did he know how
broken I was? Did he know I was a mess? That most mornings, I could
barely get out of bed?

Did he know I ached for a little girl I would
never again hold? Did he know she haunted me? Did he know I’d never
let her go?

What was he after? A fast fix? A fuck? A
vulnerable woman who lacked common sense because she was blinded by
pain?

Maybe I could give him that.

Maybe for a few minutes, it would cover it,
the hurt and the sorrow and the cruelty of this world.

Or did he see something different in me? A
companion. Someone who understood. A parent with similar
circumstances, someone who was alone, one who was spinning away her
days until something finally made sense.

Would it ever?

Because nothing made sense now. Not being
here. Not looking at him. Not the confusion wreaking havoc on my
emotions.

Maybe the most important question was the one
that burned bright, the one that nagged, the one that promised
Christian could never be scraped from my consciousness. No blade
was sharp enough. No cut could ever go deep enough.

Did Logan know he could never
compare?

Standing here, in his house, watching him from
across the span of this tiny room, this nonchalant man with the
insipid smile, I knew. I knew the mark Christian had made. It was
profound. Permanent.

And it ached.

Logan tipped his head toward the kitchen
archway. “I’d better check on the sauce. I’m making spaghetti, if
that’s okay?”

Delirious laughter threatened, but I bit it
back, held it in. Of course he was. The past seemed to be mocking
me. Maybe such a simple dinner was common, but it didn’t matter. It
still belonged to Christian and me. How many times had we stood in
my tiny kitchen after we had reconciled, Christian’s arms wrapped
around my expanding waist, his face buried in my hair as he sought
out my neck, kissing me there. I could almost hear his voice in my
ear.
Are you making my favorite? Smells so good, baby. You spoil
me. Let me finish.

I drew in a staggered breath.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I forced out.

Concern deepened the lines on Logan’s face. He
cocked his head. “You sure? Because if you don’t like spaghetti, I
can dump it and start over. Better yet, we could go out to
dinner.”

I realized then how clueless he was. He didn’t
know me. The man had no idea what hurt me and what touched me. What
would turn me on and what would shut me down.

I shook a little.

Was that what I wanted?

To start fresh?

To leave behind all the memories that would
forever haunt me? Did I want to forget the ones that had meant most
to me in favor of shunning the hurt?

It seemed the only option, because I didn’t
know how else to stand up under the pain.

A soft sound sifted from me, and I shook my
head. “No, honestly, I love spaghetti. It’s one of my
favorites.”

His concern washed to confusion. “All right,
then.” He turned and passed through the archway.

I followed him into his kitchen. It was small,
but updated. The black granite countertops gleamed with specks of
silver, black appliances to match, the dark wood cabinets
warm.

I tried to relax within it. It was one of the
coziest kitchens I’d ever been in, a lot like those we’d seen in
the homes Christian and I had been looking to buy.

Logan went straight for the large skillet
simmering on the stove. He lifted the lid. Steam curled as it rose,
and he leaned over it to take in the aroma.

“Mmm…smells good.” He opened a drawer beside
him, rustled around inside, and produced a spoon. He dipped it into
the thick, red sauce. “Here…taste.”

He held it out for me, an offering.

Cautiously I approached, this timorous edge to
my movements. My lips parted as I leaned forward to accept the
spoon. He cupped his hand under it as he lifted it to my mouth and
slipped it inside.

It was hot, burned my tongue, the savory sauce
strong. I swallowed and pulled away, our faces too close as eager
green eyes studied me. “It’s delicious,” I mumbled.

His brow shot up. “Yeah?”

“Honest.”

He smiled and raked his teeth on his bottom
lip. Then he laughed, the sound cocky and sure, breaking the band
of tension that had stretched us tight.

“Well, that’s a damn good thing, Liz, because
it’s my mom’s special recipe. Not liking my momma’s food is a deal
breaker.”

I shook my head, looked at my feet as I
laughed away my discomfort, forcing myself to relax. I cautioned a
glance up at him beneath the heavy drop of bangs that had fallen
across my forehead. “Deal breaker, huh? And just what kind of deal
am I agreeing to?”

He chuckled and scratched at the fine stubble
on his chin. “Well, I guess that depends on how much you can
handle.”

Everything slowed, that thick cord of tension
making a resurgence, sucking the air from this little
room.

I stepped back, and he turned his head down
and to the side, his hands on his hips. He grinned when he looked
back up, quick to change the subject.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

He busied himself searching through the small
wine rack tucked at the end of the counter, pulled a bottle out and
held it up. “Red okay?”

I forced myself into a detached demeanor, told
myself again that I had to try. “Yeah, that sounds
nice.”

Opening an overhead cabinet, he produced two
wine glasses. His lips pressed into a thin line as he worked the
cork free on the bottle and pulled it loose. He filled the glasses
halfway, passed one to me. He glimmered a smile.

He held out his glass. “To our little girls
who are growing up.”

Lillie struck me like an errant bolt of
lightning. My child who would never grow. I squeezed my eyes
against it, against his words, and focused instead on my Lizzie.
Reluctantly I clinked my glass his.

“To our little girls.”

We both took a deep pull of our
wine.

He lifted his glass, tipped it just to the
side, gesturing toward the stove. “I’m just going to get the water
started for the pasta. Then we can sit down and relax a bit before
we eat.”

“Is there anything I can do to
help?”

“Nah, relax. Enjoy yourself.”

He got the water ready to boil and turned back
to me. His mouth curved in clear perusal, as if he liked what he
saw. He took five steps toward me, each one cutting off a little
more of the airflow that fed my deflated lungs.

He held out his hand. “Come here.”

I let my hand slip into his. It was a test, to
see how it would feel.

And maybe it was wrong, all of it, his skin
against mine, my surrender. But I wanted to try.

I needed to try, because I was so tired of
feeling dead. I wanted to
feel
. But when I gave into
feeling, I couldn’t bear for it to hurt. I’d hurt for too long. For
just one night, I wanted to feel good.

Not the way I knew Christian’s touch would
burn me, the way it blessed me and bled me, the way he would singe
me as his fingers traced my skin, the way he would sear me with his
kiss.

I couldn’t handle anything so
intense.

Something knotted at the center of my chest,
something heavy, something vital.

I breathed around it.

Logan led me back into the family room and set
his glass down on the end table. He swept his free hand across a
rumpled blanket and dog-eared parenting book abandoned in the
middle of the couch, pushing them aside.

A grin flitted at one corner of his mouth. “I
warned you my place was a mess.”

An awkward huff worked its way free of my
tightened throat, me standing there with my hand wound with a man’s
that I didn’t even know.

And again, I was asking myself what I was
doing, just what it was I hoped to achieve.

I will try
.

He squeezed my hand and pulled me in front of
him, guiding me to sit on the smooth leather of his dark brown
couch. I sat perched at the edge, ill at ease, a subtle rock of my
being as I fought against the urge to run, the desire to
stay.

I want to feel something
good.

Picking up his glass, Logan sat down beside
me. He talked about the girl’s teacher, the school, laughed about
how stressful it was being in charge of the group of six girls he’d
chaperoned on the field trip last week.

I engaged him the best I could, laughed in all
the right places because I had nothing to add. I’d been absent the
entirety of this school year, absent from our lives.

I will try.

We sipped at our wine, talked about
nothing.

Logan set his empty wine glass aside and moved
to sit on the large square ottoman in front of me. He took my hand
in both of his. “I’m really glad you’re here, Liz.”

I blinked. Emotions lashed within me.
Volatile. Violent. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

He seemed to choke over his laughter. It
seemed so out of character for this man, but then I had to admit, I
really didn’t know him at all. He was my daughter’s friend’s
father. Nothing more. And here I sat with my hand burning between
the heat of both of his.

Pulling back, he splayed what seemed to be a
nervous hand through his messy hair. For a moment, he looked away,
then turned his attention back to me. All the casualness I’d come
to expect from him evaporated, severity taking its
place.

“I’ve wanted to do something since the first
time I saw you.” His hands tightened on mine as he inclined his
head, searching, seeking permission.

I chewed at my lip, that disquiet from before
bold, sinking aggressive fingers into my spirit.

“See…that…right there. It drives me insane,
Liz. That mouth.”