“Be a stranger.” He paused. “I’ll be waiting.”
He kissed me again and rounded the corner, striding down the block alone. I waited a moment, then followed him, watching. He walked with his head up, his shoulders straight. His jeans hugged his ass, and his stride ate up the distance quickly. He didn’t pause as he walked past the car, not sparing it a glance as he went by. My heart felt heavy as he moved farther away. My annoyance grew the closer I got to my building. I had checked my phone before we left for breakfast. There were no calls or messages. Not a word from my parents. Yet, here they were.
The back passenger door swung open, and my father stepped from the car, facing me as I drew close.
“Lottie,” he said as I stopped in front of him.
“Dad. Or should I say, Charles? Is this business-related?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t really like your tone.”
“I don’t like you showing up unannounced.”
He crossed his arms. “I wasn’t aware it was illegal to come by your daughter’s home to see her.”
“Not illegal. But highly unusual on your part.”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Your mother wanted to check on you.”
I lowered myself to peer into the car. “Hello, Mom.”
“Lottie. You could be a little more welcoming.”
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“That much is obvious.” She paused, her foot swinging in agitation. “Are you going to invite us up for tea or not?”
I was suddenly grateful that Logan had tidied up this morning. I had teased him about being picky, but he had made sure the condo showed no signs of our frantic coupling when we first got in the door last night. He had straightened the pictures, picked up the buttons, and wiped the puddles from our boots and jackets. I had made the bed, although I doubted my parents would venture from the living room.
“Of course,” I offered, knowing I had no choice. “Please come up.”
My mother sat on the edge of the sofa, looking around my eclectic place with a barely concealed shudder. What I found homey and warm, she thought of as shabby and castoffs. I had to admit, many of my things came from thrift stores or were items I had bought on Facebook Marketplace, etc. I loved painting and fixing them to make them my own.
Her lips thinned as I handed her a cup of tea, in the only matched cup and saucer I had. I knew she preferred tea in a proper cup. I liked the mismatched ones better but didn’t want to push it. I gave my dad a cup of coffee, knowing he disliked tea.
They were both uncomfortable in my space, aghast that I could choose to live here instead of one the sleek, modern places my father owed, or even better, in their building.
I would wither away and die under their scrutiny.
“Your father told me you didn’t go into the office yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I don’t recall you having womanly issues before,” my mother stated primly.
I tried not to find her amusing. She was so stiff, if I poked her, she would explode. I recalled the mother I knew when I was much younger. She was warm and affectionate, always ready to talk or offer advice with a hug. Not this shell of a woman who barely made eye contact.
“It happens on occasion,” I murmured. “I’m feeling better.”
“You must be. You weren’t here when we arrived.”
“If you had called, I would have told you I was getting a few groceries. While I was out, I stopped and had breakfast.”
“I hope you don’t make a habit of disappearing.”
My patience snapped. “It was one day, Dad. One day. Surely to god, even the great Charles Prescott has taken a day off?”
“I have never taken a sick day, no.”
“What about when Josh died? You must have taken a day or two off to grieve? Or was the business more important than he was? I know it’s more important than I am.”
“Charlotte!” my father roared. “How dare you?”
“I dare because you showed up here this morning to check on me. Do you drop by every employee’s home who calls in sick?”
He glared. “Only my daughter’s.”
“I had the flu last year on the weekend and stayed home. You never checked on me then. If I had known all it took for you to notice was me taking a day off, I would have done so sooner.”
My father rose to his feet, the look on his face thunderous.
My mother cleared her throat. “I am shocked at your lack of respect, Charlotte.”
I remained silent, my blood humming through my veins, and my heart beating fast.
“You are obviously still not feeling yourself, Charlotte. I am going to give you a pass this time.”
“How magnanimous.”
“We obviously aren’t welcome here, so we will leave.”
“My parents are always welcome. My boss is not. This is my private place.”
His lips tightened again, and he held out his hand to my mother. “Josephine, we’ll be leaving now.”
“I will meet you in the car, Charles.”
He walked to the door. “I hope you feel better, my daughter. If there is something you need, you have only to ask.” He drew in a long breath. “I expect to see you, Charlotte, in the office on Monday. I also expect your fit of temper to be set aside by then.” He walked out, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Was that necessary?” my mother asked, her voice frosty.
“Yes, actually, it was. It was Dad who drew the lines between daughter and employee, Mom. He crossed it by coming here to check on me—as Charles Prescott, not my dad.”
“They’re the same person.”
“Not to me. They haven’t been for years.” My voice dropped. “Since Josh died, and you both became strangers.”
She stood, her face pale. “You’re being particularly spiteful today. Do you enjoy hurting us, Charlotte?”
“Why can’t we talk about him? Talk about what happened?”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I cannot bear it,” she stated. “You have no idea…” She trailed off.
My anger deflated. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t… I’m…” I was at a loss for words. I never challenged my parents. I toed the line because that was what I was supposed to do.
She tightened her lips. “I suggest you take the rest of the weekend and do some serious thinking. You’ve forgotten all you have to be grateful for. All we have done for you.”
She swept past me, her shoulders back, her manner formal. “I will speak to you next week. I think we’ll skip brunch tomorrow. Your attitude is tiresome and unbecoming.”
Her words were meant to upset me. Except the thought of having the whole day, not to have to go to their place and pretend to be something I was not, filled me with relief.
The closing of the door brought me out of my thoughts. She hadn’t said goodbye or waited for me to do so. I began to hurry toward the door but stopped. That was exactly what she wanted—for me to run after her and beg forgiveness. If I ever spoke back or flexed my so-called muscles, that was what happened—the game we played.
Only this time, I refused to participate. I wanted to talk about my brother. I needed to know why their love for me died when he did. Why nothing I did, no matter how hard I tried, made any difference. Why I wasn’t worth the effort.
Why it still hurt me so much.
I sat down, letting my head fall into my hands.
I had a feeling I would never have my answers.
Chapter 9
Logan
I paced my apartment on a repetitive loop, unable to settle. I glanced at the heavy watch on my wrist for the hundredth time since leaving Lottie, the anxiety I was feeling bubbling and roiling in my stomach. I clawed my fingers through my hair, my nerves feeling as if they were on the outside of my body.
Why the hell hadn’t Lottie shown up yet?
I had hung around the corner for about twenty minutes after she went inside with her parents. I
had watched their exchange from a distance, noting the stiffness of their interaction. There were no hugs or even touching. Her father stood, his hands at his sides as he spoke, the only movement the shaking of his head. When Lottie’s mother stepped from the car, I could see the resemblance to her daughter in her coloring and stature. But, like her husband, she was stiff, offering no kiss on the cheek or motherly hug. They followed Lottie upstairs, the car remaining parked outside.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Lottie’s father stormed down the steps, almost wrenching the handle off as he flung himself inside the car, the loud slam of the door echoing on the quiet street. Her mother followed shortly after, waiting until the driver opened the door for her before joining her husband. Her movements were less strident, but her posture was rigid and angry. They had obviously exchanged words with Lottie. I waited a few moments to see if Lottie would appear, then decided she was probably collecting herself if they had, indeed, had an argument.
I was loath to leave. I had no idea why I was acting this way toward Lottie. The need to be close and protect her was paramount. I had never felt this way toward another person in my life. I wanted to go back to her place, sweep her into my arms and hold her, but I realized it would be too much. She had said she would come to me, and I had to let her do so in her own time.
Reluctantly, I headed home and waited for her to appear.
Now four hours later, I was still waiting. I cursed myself when I realized I had never taken her cell number, so I couldn’t call her. I perched on the arm of the sofa, eyeing my guitar. Not even it held its usual draw. The thoughts in my mind were too chaotic and disjointed for music—unless it was an angry, violent tune. Doubts were piling up in my head.
What if Lottie realized yesterday was a mistake? What if she decided she didn’t want to see me again? Could she have come to the realization we were different people, wanting different things from life and that I was too much to take on?
I tugged on my hair with a low, frustrated groan. Was she avoiding me? Had she purposely not given me her number? I tried to recall if I had asked for it, but nothing came to mind. We had both been caught up in the day and each other, and until she saw her parents’ car, our parting hadn’t been planned.
We had simply forgotten—I was certain of it.
So why wasn’t she here?
Another thought niggled at my brain. Maybe her parents upset her so much she wanted to be alone. There were times I needed solitude, and I shut myself in my room with only my guitar for company. Since she didn’t have my number either, she had no way of letting me know.
That had to be it.
Except, I couldn’t settle until I knew. With a low curse, I grabbed my jacket and yanked it on, shoving my feet into my boots. I slid my phone into my pocket, and the last thing I picked up were the mitts Lottie had knit and given me yesterday.
I had to see her.
I was lucky when I got to Lottie’s building. Another resident was leaving, and I grabbed the door and headed inside. I hurried up the stairs to her floor, too impatient to wait for the old elevator. I had spied lights on in her place as I approached the building, so I assumed she was inside.
I hoped she wouldn’t be angry with me for coming over, but I couldn’t wait anymore.
I knocked on her door, stepping back in surprise when she flung it open. She was wearing a soiled apron, and there was a streak of flour on her flushed cheek. Her hair was gathered in a chaotic bun on the top of her head, tendrils escaping all around her face and neck. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw me, then in a move I hadn’t expected, she launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burrowing into my chest.
“Logan,” she breathed out.
I embraced her, feeling the tension drain from my body at the way she relaxed into me. I had made the right decision coming over.
“Lottie,” I murmured. “I was worried.”
She looked up with a frown. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Did what?”
“Lost track of time.”
“I’ve been waiting four hours.”
She pulled away and glanced behind her. “Well, that explains my productivity.” She stepped back into her hall. “You had better come in.”
I followed her inside, hanging up my coat and walking into the kitchen. It smelled like heaven, the air laden with the scent of sugar and spice, heavy with cinnamon and the richness of butter.
There were piles of cookies. All sorts on plates and cooling trays. Some filled, some iced, one large platter so beautifully decorated they needed to be displayed as art, not eaten. On a turntable was a cake Lottie was working on, beautifully iced with intricate details, roses and piping that she was in the middle of creating.
“What on earth?” I asked.
She sighed. “When I get upset, I bake.”
“Your parents upset you this much?”
“Yes.”
I picked up a cookie—one of the iced, beautiful creations and met her gaze. “These are stunning.”
“Try it.”
I frowned, and she shook her head. “I make them to be eaten, Logan. I enjoy the decoration part.”
Not needing any other encouragement, I bit down. The buttery cookie was dense and rich, the icing sweet and smooth on my tongue. “Amazing,” I mumbled.
“I always wanted to be a pastry chef. I love to bake.”
“How do you eat all this and stay so tiny?” I asked.
Lottie picked up her icing bag, beginning more loops and swirls on the cake. “I give to my neighbors and take stuff to the office. If I have a bad day and make a huge batch of simple cookies like gingersnaps or chocolate chip ones, I take them to the homeless shelter.” She wrinkled her nose. “They prefer those to the fancy ones—easier to hand out for people to enjoy.”
I studied her work. “You should follow your dream.”
Her sigh was low and long. “Maybe one day.”
I watched her in silence for a while, simply relieved at being in the same room as her. She was confident and fast, the cake becoming more beautiful by the moment. She busied herself with another pastry bag, and a few moments later, she slipped small roses on top of the cake. I watched in awe at the ease with which she created the pretty cake.
“So, you do this often?” I asked quietly.
“I suppose so. At least once a week and most weekends,” she admitted.
I hated knowing how unhappy her job made her. That she struggled that much.
“You forget to buy food for yourself…” I began, only for her to finish my sentence.
“…but my cupboards are always full of baking supplies. I know.”
“You need to take better care of you,” I surmised.
She met my concerned gaze with her lovely eyes and indicated the large amount of baking all around her. “This feeds my soul.”
She slid another small group of flowers onto the top of the cake and nodded as if pleased. It looked like a garden—almost too pretty to eat. Yet, I wanted a piece of the cake she had baked. I wanted to sample her creation. To savor something that brought her joy and maintained her sanity. I wanted a piece of her soul.
“If this—” I indicated the various treats “—makes you happy, why don’t you do it full time?”
“Because I have to fulfill my obligation.”
“To your parents?” I guessed.
The happy light in her eyes died as she frowned. “Yes.”
“Are you done here?”
“For now.”
I extracted the icing bag from her hands. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t know if I can talk about this.”
I slid my arms around her waist, pulling her close. The way she immediately relaxed into me made me happy. I liked knowing how much she needed to be held by me.
“I will listen to whatever you can say. But I need to understand, Lottie.”
She was silent for a moment, then tilted back her head. “No one ever asks.�
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“I’m not no one. Don’t you get that? Don’t you feel this connection between us?”
“Yes.” Her eyes held my gaze. “It’s…intense.”
I tightened my arms. “It is. It is also unbreakable. I’m here for you. So, today, tomorrow, next week, whenever you want to talk, I’m here.”
“Okay.”
I brushed my lips to hers. “Can I have another cookie?”
“You liked it?”
“Next to you, it was the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Her cheeks flushed and she glanced away. I slipped my finger under her chin and met her eyes. “You and your cookies are amazing. So, yes, I want another one, or six. And I want to talk. Then I want to spend the rest of the day with you. Naked.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Naked together?”
I chuckled. “It would be a little awkward if I was the only one naked.” I bent low and kissed the soft spot behind her ear as I stroked along her forearms with my thumbs. “Besides, what I want to do with you? You need to be naked too.”
She shivered, goose bumps rising on her skin. Tugging on the apron, she stepped back and pulled it away, tossing it to the counter. “Okay, then.”
Lottie
We sat in the living room. I made coffee and brought in a plate of cookies. I wanted the cake to set up before I sliced into it. It was always tastier after it cooled completely and the flavors melded. Logan picked up another cookie, biting and chewing, his eyes drifting shut in appreciation. He hummed in pleasure.
“All of these are incredible.”
“Good.”
He held out the cookie he was eating, pressing it to my mouth. “Bite,” he instructed. I hesitated and he frowned.
“Surely, you at least eat your own cookies, Lottie. You don’t give them all away?”
I opened my mouth and let him feed me. The spicy ginger and cinnamon flavor enhanced with the vanilla and lemon glaze burst in my mouth. It was one of my favorites, and this was a particularly good batch.
“I do,” I mumbled around my mouthful. “I eat a few of them.”
Heart Strings Page 8
