Willow Spring (15 page)

Without weighing it, he said to Anna, “Excuse me—there’s something I need to take care of.”

He barely caught her dry tone as she murmured, “Sure, go ahead—you’re not listening to me anyway.”

Then he pushed to his feet, strode out onto the dance floor, and reached up to place a hand on Duke’s shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

As the biker turned to make bold eye contact, he looked surprised and not particularly amused, and for the first time it occurred to Logan that maybe this wasn’t the best guy to be messing with. But it was too late for that now, so he simply held his ground until Duke slowly said, “Uh, sure, dude,” then moved aside, allowing Logan to take his place.

Stepping up to Amy, he slid his arms around her waist, letting them settle into the warm curve there, surprised all over again when the new nearness brought on a fresh heat he felt from his head to his toes. He couldn’t help but wonder—was she feeling this, too? Or was it all him? He was almost embarrassed by it and hoped she’d never know.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she snapped. Okay, apparently it was all him.

“I could ask you the same question,” he replied pointedly.

“I was having a perfectly pleasant dance with the first man who’s shown an interest in me in longer than I can remember—and you break in like some kind of he-man?”

Logan just let out a breath. “First of all, I’m not acting like a he-man—I just cut in on a dance, that’s all. And second, what are you thinking, freckles? Duke Dawson? The guy has some shady past we don’t even know about. He’s dangerous.”

Even as she rolled her eyes, Logan remained aware of the fact that her palms curved over his shoulders. “Dangerous how? You’re just stereotyping him. What do you know about him that’s so dangerous? He’s Lucky’s best friend and Tessa likes him fine—heck, even Mike likes him.”

Logan blew out an exasperated breath—mainly because she was right and he didn’t have an answer. Other than . . . “He’s just all wrong for you.”

She blinked, looking incredulous. “How do you know what’s right and wrong for me?”

For some reason, the fact that she was arguing with him made him tighten his grip on her thin waist a little more. He felt the strangest compulsion to just . . . take care of her. And maybe he’d
always
felt that, but he’d just never really acted on it—until now. “I know you, Amy,” he told her. “I know you better than anybody does.”

Yet even this brought a saucy reply that caught him off guard. “Do you, Logan? Really?” Something in her tone implied that maybe he didn’t. And that made him feel a little panicky.

“What does
that
mean?”

“Maybe there are things about me you don’t know. Maybe there are things about me that would shock the hell out of you!”

Hell?
Amy never cussed. He leaned forward slightly as they danced. “Are you drunk or something?”

She just let out an irritated breath. “A little tipsy maybe, but not drunk. In fact, maybe I’m . . . more in my right mind than usual.”

He let his eyes go even wider on her than they already were. “And what does
that
mean?”

“Never mind,” she muttered, just as a new song began to play—the Rod Stewart classic, “You’re In My Heart.”

She started to pull away, end the dance—and the embrace—but he followed the urge to pull her back to him, not let her go. “By the way, you look great tonight.”

And this was the first time since he’d started dancing with her that she seemed . . . like herself a little. Her expression relaxed, her eyes softened. “Really? Thank you.”

“I barely recognized you coming down the aisle. I had no idea you were so . . .”

She peered up at him, into his eyes. “So what?”

For some reason, a slight lump rose in his throat then—maybe because they just didn’t usually say things like this to each other—but he spoke around it. “Pretty, I guess. You’re really pretty, Amy, in a way I just never noticed before.”

She bit her lip, lowered her gaze bashfully—and he thought in that moment she looked even prettier than she had all night. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice little more than a whisper.

Amy could barely process what was happening. One minute she’d been dancing with Duke, and it had been . . . well, more entertaining than she’d expected. Because even if they had absolutely nothing in common, he made her feel good about herself, like he enjoyed her company, like he found her attractive. And that was something Amy hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Maybe she hadn’t realized until that minute how much it mattered, how much a girl needed to feel . . . appreciated. As a female, a woman.

And just when she’d been getting into that, wrapping her head around the idea that—nothing in common or not—something could happen here, between them, that she could maybe let go of her old shyness and embrace that idea, along had come Logan! Cutting in on her dance, and on her chance for romance . . . or well, at least for some much-needed male attention.

And even as mad as she’d been at him—for his presumptuousness, for driving away Duke but not wanting her for himself—his hands on her had felt . . . so, so good.

And now, now he was telling her he’d noticed. That she was pretty. And the words tingled down through her as potent as any kiss or touch. And maybe she wasn’t so mad anymore. Because maybe . . . just maybe . . . something was changing here, sparking to life. Maybe her dreams were beginning to come true.

She let herself get lost in the old Rod Stewart tune that suddenly struck her as the most deep-down romantic song she’d ever heard. It was about more than being in love—it was about being in someone’s soul, forever, and that was really what she and Logan shared. They were in each other’s souls—you couldn’t
not
be with a relationship as long as theirs. And even if up to now it had been all about friendship, she believed—in her heart—that in this moment things were shifting.

“There’s something I want to tell you, Amy,” he said then.

And, oh Lord. It was happening—it was really happening. Warm and happy in his strong arms, she gazed up into his eyes, let her fingers curl slightly into his shoulders. “What is it, Logan?”

“Someone’s been sending me notes—from a secret admirer. And I can’t figure out who they’re from, so it’s driving me a little crazy at this point, you know?”

Oh. God. Same old Logan. Bringing his problems and questions and concerns to her. And until recently, that would have been totally fine—and she couldn’t even be mad at him, because this was the nature of their relationship; she was his pal, his friend, the girl he talked to about all the
other
girls in his life. The only thing different was—now it tore her heart out.

She swallowed back her sadness and found the strength to push words past the tightness in her chest. “I can imagine.”

“I mean, who could it be? And why don’t they just tell me?”

Amy only nodded—no reply seemed necessary, and she couldn’t summon one anyway.

“The only person I can think of is Anna. Not that she needs to let me know she’s into me with notes—she’s let me know well enough in person.”

Oh no—he thought they were from Anna? That had never even occurred to her! Why hadn’t she and Tessa thought of that? What a major flaw in their plan!

“So,” Logan went on, his own frustration clearly building, “I think I’m just gonna ask Anna, flat out, right now, if they’re from her. Because if they are, what am I waiting for? How come I’m not making a move?”

“Well, because of Mike,” Amy answered, desperate to stop this train that suddenly felt as if it were speeding out of control. “I thought Mike wanted you to take things slow. Or that’s what I heard anyway.” Logan hadn’t actually told her that—ironically, it had been Anna who had, at Rachel’s bachelorette party.

“Sure, I don’t want to piss Mike off—but just like Anna’s told him, she’s old enough to make her own decisions. And it’s not like I’m a creep or something. So I’m just gonna ask her, as soon as this song ends.”

And then the song ended.

But Amy didn’t quite let go of him.

Because if she did—well, it didn’t matter that Anna didn’t write those notes. Once he asked her, one thing would lead to another. And it would be just as she feared—this wedding would turn out to be the perfect night for them to move things forward, have sex!

Logan peered down into her eyes. “Thanks for the dance, freckles. And . . . don’t be pissed at me for cutting in, okay? It’s only because I care about you, you know.”

She nodded numbly. “I know.” Then felt him pulling away.

And then he was walking toward the edge of the dance floor, and a whole new desperation clawed at her—
you’re
damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

And that left only one real choice.
Do something. Something bold. This is the moment of truth.

Without quite having a plan, she followed after him, grabbed his arm tight.

He came to a quick halt, turning back to look at her.

“Wait, stop, don’t ask her if she wrote the notes,” she said.

Logan’s eyes widened slightly. “Why not?”

Amy could barely breathe. “Because they’re not from her.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know who they’re from.”

“Who?” he asked.

And she whispered, “Me.”

Eleven

. . . she felt too much in the secret herself . . .

Jane Austen, from
Emma

“Y
ou?” he said, and Amy wanted to die. She wanted the dance floor and the ground beneath it to open up and swallow her whole.

She said nothing—she couldn’t. She didn’t even nod. She simply stood there, frozen, her gaze locked with his, trying to swallow past the nervous lump in her throat. And she knew the look on her face surely said it all anyway.

“Really?” he finally asked, his voice soft, introspective. He was processing this, realizing, understanding. And oh Lord, surely remembering some of the most key lines from those notes.
I fall asleep at night dreaming of your kisses. I want to know how it feels to have your hands on me. I want you inside me.

And so then the truth simply began spilling from her lips in a rush. “After that day you kissed me, I realized that . . . that I liked it, and that I . . . have feelings for you. Those kinds of feelings.” Oh God, she couldn’t breathe. “And I . . . I couldn’t tell you because . . . because I couldn’t face what you might think or how shocked you’d be or . . . the look on your face right now. But I wanted to let you know. Just in some little way. And I . . . I . . . just want to be with you, Logan. Like . . . that.” The last part came out in a whisper, but still she’d said it, which she couldn’t quite believe.

“Like you said in the notes,” he murmured softly.

She managed a nod, but had no idea what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Pity?
Oh, please don’t let it be pity.
And then she realized what was probably coming. He would tell her how much he cared about her and how sweet she was and how he’d always be her friend, but that he just didn’t feel that way about her. And she’d be humiliated and their friendship would never really be the same, and she’d be stuck like this—loving but unloved, filled with passion but never experiencing it, full of desire but undesirable—for the rest of her sad, pathetic life.

She braced herself but dreaded what was coming, right down to the marrow of her bones.
Why? Don’t I deserve some happiness? Finally?

Yet Logan didn’t speak. Instead, he took her arm and led her from the dance floor, unnoticed by the rest of the wedding guests.

And he pulled her into a small, isolated alcove beneath one of the haylofts, where tools were stored and the air was shadowy and smelled of old wood. She might have forgotten she was even at a wedding if the music and laughter beyond hadn’t echoed in her ears.

Logan looked at her long and hard, and she met his gorgeous blue gaze with a painful combination of want and terror, and when he leaned in to press his forehead lightly against hers, she ceased smelling the barn, her senses now filled only with the slightly musky, masculine scent of Logan himself. “Listen,” he began, “the whole idea of this kinda freaks me out, freckles . . .”

She sucked in her breath, relished being so close to him, and prayed.

“But . . . but maybe . . .”

“Maybe . . . ?” She had to repeat it to ensure she’d heard him correctly. He was saying maybe? Really? Not no?

“Maybe I should just . . . do
this
and see what happens.” And with that, he tilted his head and kissed her.

It was a short, soft kiss that trickled all through Amy, right down to the tips of her fingers and toes. And she’d just started catching her breath when he came back in for another, his mouth pressing to hers in a slightly deeper, more sensual kiss that caused her to tense at first—but then she relaxed into it, because it just felt too good and was sweeping her away. Now there was no music, no laughter, no wedding at all—only Logan.

When he ended the kiss, she felt suspended in space, time, standing there with her eyes shut, lips still parted. It had been possibly the best moment of her life. Because unlike the kisses on the couch, this time she knew she loved him and she had yearned for this, prayed for this, craved this, with her whole heart, ever since the moment she’d figured that out and started accepting it.

She drew in her breath as he leaned his forehead back against hers now, both of them silent. And Amy’s heart had never beat faster. Because . . . she suddenly wanted to grab hold of this moment. In a way she’d never grabbed hold of any moment in her life before. She knew it with her entire being. And she feared that if she didn’t do what she wanted to do right now, what her very soul was driving her to, that the opportunity might never come her way again. And that she’d always regret letting it pass her by.
Just say what’s in your heart. Just say it.

“
Logan, I . . . I want you. Right now. More than I’ve . . . maybe ever wanted anything.”

She heard the deep breath he expelled, and she was just about to wonder, worry, what it meant—when he took her hand and led her from the alcove, and then out the back of the barn until they emerged into the dark of night. He never said a word, just kept walking, leading her, hand in hand. Summer fragrances met her nose—honeysuckle and the wild roses she’d seen growing behind the barn on the day of the shower. And then they were stopping at his car and he was grabbing a picnic blanket from the trunk that she’d seen—even sat upon—many times before. Having known Logan his whole life, she knew it was the quilt, made by his mother, that had covered his bed as a boy.

Amy’s heart was in her throat as Logan tucked the old quilt under one arm and proceeded to lead her back into the orchard. The sky above was clear and star-filled as they walked between billowing apple trees.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly.

“Just a place I know, from working here with Mike sometimes.”

It didn’t take long to get there, and when Logan drew them both to a halt, the moonlit night allowed her to see they’d arrived at a small clearing—a blanket of soft summer grass along burbling Sugar Creek stretched toward a tranquil pool of water, and the willow trees dipping over it from the creek’s edge reminded her of the willows at Logan’s cottage next to Blue Valley Lake.

“This is one of those spots that’s nice and cool even on a hot summer day,” Logan told her, “and Mike says there’s a natural spring somewhere nearby.” But his voice came deeper than usual, and she sensed he was . . . excited. Aroused. Oh God, he wanted her, too. She’d realized what they were coming here for, of course, but he really, honestly, truly wanted her, too!

After he spread the blanket on the ground, though, he turned to face her—suddenly appearing a little doubtful—to say, “Are you sure, Amy? Because, I mean, this is kind of fast.”

Unfortunately, however, she couldn’t speak. Because despite that she
was
sure, she was also a little bit terrified, all things considered. Yet she knew she had to push the terror aside—that it was now or never. And yeah, maybe she’d be a little more comfortable with what was about to happen if she, say,
dated
Logan, if they worked up to this more slowly. But she’d waited long enough—thirty-four years to be exact. And she wasn’t going to wait even one more night.

So she nodded, then bit her lower lip just slightly—just before Logan took her hand back into his and stepped up close for another kiss.

And then one turned into another—kisses that came soft and slow, lingering and intoxicating.

Amy didn’t know a kiss could be like that, such a gentle meeting of mouths that could stretch so infinitely, powerfully through her. At first she thought such slow, tender affections shouldn’t be moving her so deeply, making her tingle so much from head to toe. But then she remembered: This was Logan. Of course it was making her tingle. Heck, these days just a look from him accomplished that.

It took only seconds before she was lost in his tender kisses in a way she’d never truly been lost in anything before. Back when she’d been with Carl—yes, there’d been plenty of kissing, making out, touching, but she’d simply never felt for him as she did for Logan, and besides, that had been a lifetime ago. And she couldn’t think of a time or a place that had ever felt more truly perfect to her than here, now.

She didn’t know how long they’d kissed that way before Logan’s hands closed warmly on her waist, his fingers beginning to knead, massage. Her breasts ached as she instinctively leaned into him, pressed them against his firm chest. The move caused him to deepen his kisses, and soon his tongue flirted with her lips and she immediately parted them further, welcoming him inside, letting her own tongue begin to play with his.

That one simple, new intimacy made the juncture of her thighs weep and want. Oh Lord, what a hunger to have never had fulfilled. And knowing that it soon
would
be, in the sweetest possible way by the most perfect man on earth, drove Amy’s desire higher and higher, and any inhibitions she’d continued to suffer now melted away in the warmth of the Destiny summer night.

When Logan’s hand rose smoothly to her breast, a soft gasp echoed from her throat—both from the shock of what it felt like to be touched there, and also the pleasure. It expanded outward as he brushed his thumb across her nipple through her dress and bra and she gave herself over completely to the sensations now rushing through her body as they never had before. What she’d experienced with Carl simply paled in comparison to this—in every way.

Now Amy kissed him back eagerly, fervently, no longer shy—her mouth and her body followed their natural urges as thick arousal pulsed through every inch of her being.

I love you, I love you, I love you.
Those words threatened to come spilling out of her as that love raced through her veins and pounded in her chest—so it was probably a good thing her lips were too busy kissing him for that to happen. And maybe he already knew—maybe the notes and the things she’d said to him a little while ago pretty much made it clear—but she still didn’t think this was the time to be telling him about it.

No, now was the time to just feel. And bask. And follow instincts. And drink in all the pleasure she’d never experienced before.

It surprised her when she was the one—without even making the decision—to take things to the next level, clutching at the front of Logan’s tuxedo shirt, soon digging her fingers into the pleated placket, trying to undo the buttons and get to more of him.

He responded in kind, pulling the blue strap of her bridesmaid dress from her shoulder as he bent to kiss her neck. She instinctually leaned her head to one side to better soak in this new affection, and mmm . . . she’d forgotten just how much she’d once loved having her neck kissed. A soft moan even escaped her lips.

But she didn’t care—she held nothing back now. And she could hear both of them breathing audibly, labored, as she finally succeeded in getting some buttons undone on his shirt. Only to—darn it!—find a T-shirt underneath, of course. A light sound of frustration left her and Logan answered it by abandoning her just long enough to rid himself of the bow tie still around his neck, then the shirt itself. He ripped the T-shirt off over his head then and—oh!—Amy sighed at the sight of him.

It wasn’t that she’d never seen him shirtless before—it was that she’d never seen him shirtless for her.

They resumed kissing, her palms pressed flat against his chest, and soon she began to move them, explore, experiment with touching.
This is Logan. And I’m touching him. Just the way I fantasized.
How amazing was that? She’d actually, somehow, made her fantasy come true.

As his perfect kisses continued, he reached behind her, found the top of the zipper on the back of her dress. And then it loosened and Amy knew the moment of truth had arrived. But then a less-than-perfect aspect of this timing struck her. “I’m wearing a bunch of complicated undergarments,” she heard herself telling him.

Yet it only caused a soft smile to light his face. “That’s okay—I don’t mind if it takes a little while to get you out of them. Builds the suspense.”

Oh, if you only knew just how high my suspense already is, Logan.
But she kept that thought to herself and simply smiled back as he gently tugged the dress from her shoulders, and then a moment later, her hips. It fell around her in a taffeta heap on the edge of the quilt and she stepped out of her dyed-to-match shoes at the same time to stand before him in a white strapless bra, more like a corset of sorts, that extended to her waist, and a netted crinoline that had given the princess-skirted dress the right amount of fluff.

Logan stood back and looked her over, his eyes filled with both sex and amusement. “How do we get you out of this stuff?”

“The crinoline’s easy,” she said, dropping her glance to it. “Drawstring in the back.”

“Should I do the honors?” he asked.

And she whispered, “Yeah”—then waited patiently as he reached around behind her and pulled the string.

The crinoline relaxed around her waist immediately and fell to the ground atop her dress revealing a pair of white cotton bikini panties with little yellow happy faces on them.

“Cute,” he said, stepping back to look.

And Amy managed a “Thanks,” but it wasn’t easy with Logan’s eyes suddenly on her
there
.