by Joyce Lamb
He handed her a glass of ice water, and she took it with a grateful smile and drank down a refreshing gulp while he sat beside her.
They’d been friends for nearly two years before the shooting, ever since he’d arrived as Lake Avalon’s newest detective. They’d flirted at the scenes of crimes, accidents, fires and other newsworthy events that she’d photographed for the next day’s newspaper while he kept order. She’d always thought he was hot—that’s what caught her eye the first time. Hot guy in a uniform, snapping orders at unruly people. Of course she noticed. Hello?
After she got shot, though, he started dropping by, casual as you please. In the early days of healing, when she still needed someone close by, he’d come over with a pizza on nights when her sister had other plans. Then, he’d show up with popcorn and a DVD in the middle of a Saturday afternoon to keep her company during her most restless hours. She suspected Charlie put him up to it at first, her sister’s form of guilt-free bailing on keep-Alex-entertained-while-she-heals duty.
But she’d been able to take care of herself for weeks now, had even returned to her job snapping photos for the newspaper, and still Logan dropped by regularly, always with the excuse of feeding her or bringing a movie that she just had to see or catching the latest episode of The Amazing Race or Seinfeld reruns or even just channel surfing. Sometimes, like tonight, they’d fall asleep together on the sofa, like an old married couple.
She didn’t mind. She enjoyed being with Logan, loved his comfortable company. But she was definitely wondering where they stood. Were they just BFFs? Or, hell, maybe this was John Logan’s idea of romance. Maybe they’d been dating for weeks, and Alex hadn’t even realized. She was so confused. Or perhaps clueless. Yeah, that would be just like her. She’d already spent the past fifteen years—prime dating years—so wrapped up in which wounded animal needed saving next that when she did get involved in a romance, the man invariably ended up feeling second best to her mutts and split.
Just then Logan scooted closer and put both hands on her shoulders, rolling the tight muscles with his large, gentle fingers. Through the cotton of her T-shirt, she detected a tremor in those strong fingers and turned her head to glance at him again. He looked tense, his jaw set, that something’s-bothering-me muscle flexing at his temple. Well, she couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t the first time she’d awakened screaming in his presence. Poor guy. Lucky him, so far she’d had the nightmare only when he was on the sofa with her.
“Tell me about the dream,” he said.
She shifted her shoulders under his hands, distracted by the heat of those hands through her shirt, distracted further by the heat gathering low in her belly. Just friends, she thought. Just friends.
“Is it about when you were shot?” he prodded.
She shook her head and swallowed. “No.”
“Then what?”
“I . . . don’t think I . . . It’s too . . . horrible.” Her head started to throb like it had the other times she’d had the nightmare.
“Maybe talking about it will make it stop.”
Somehow, she didn’t think so. Nothing would help. And it was too disturbing. Besides, she didn’t want to admit she could even dream such a thing. “So . . . are we a thing?”
She blurted it without thinking. But, well, she wanted to know. And she really didn’t want to talk about nightmares. She was far too happy a person for dark shit like that.
His gentle massage paused. “Uh . . .”
Heat flooded up her neck at his flustered reaction. “Never mind. I’m just . . . you know me . . . think before I speak . . . I mean, speak before I think . . .” Oh, God, somebody get her a paper bag to put over her head.
Logan resumed the massage. “Well, I’ve been—”
“It’s okay if we’re just friends. I mean, you’ve been great keeping me company. I’ve really enjoyed it. But, you know, I’m good now. So if you have other things to do . . .” Forget the paper bag. She needed something to clamp her lips shut. One of those giant red chip clips.
The magic fingers stopped, and this time, instead of letting his hands lightly remain on her shoulders, he removed them. “If I have other things to do?”
“Well, I know Charlie kind of dumped babysitting duty on you after I got hurt, and while I appreciate it and all . . .” Crap.
“Are you trying to tell me you want me to leave?”
“No! Of course not.” With a sigh, she closed her eyes and hung her head. That paper bag would now have to be shaped like a dunce’s cap. “Please tell me this is just another bad dream.”
“Wish I could,” he murmured, sounding hurt.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a dolt. In fact, it’s probably low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten since . . .” She checked her watch. “It’s been two hours.” And she sure as hell wasn’t hungry again already. Lame. So lame.
Instead of responding, he got up, leaving her on the sofa to watch his amazing backside disappear into her kitchen. Regret stabbed into her as sharp as one of those knives that could cut through a can. She needed to learn to keep her big mouth shut.
The headache that came from the nightmare spread down the back of her neck, sending tendrils of tension into already taut muscles. Pushing to her feet, wishing she had the coordination to actually kick herself, she headed for the kitchen. The six dogs roaming the fenced backyard were no doubt wondering when she planned to give them some chow. At least she had them to keep her company now.
In the kitchen, she froze, surprised to see Logan bent over with his head deep in her fridge, his butt very nicely filling out his faded jeans. She had to resist the urge to reach out and do a firmness check. She bet on a scale of one to ten, that sweet, muscled package would rate at least a fifteen.
Folding her arms, she leaned against the doorjamb and waited for him to resurface, a smile curving her lips. Maybe she hadn’t messed up after all. Maybe they could pretend she’d never said a word. Things could go back to the way they were. Comfortable. Friendly. Relaxed. Though she might need to seek some advice on how to deal with having such a hunky, appealing guy as just a friend.
He straightened, arms laden with a head of lettuce, a pound of bacon and a jar of Miracle Whip, and bumped the fridge door closed with one lean hip.
“How about a BLT?” he asked as he dumped his bounty on the counter and reached for a tomato sitting on the windowsill above the sink.
“Sounds good,” she said. She hunted up the bread and popped two slices in the toaster.
They worked side by side, like they had dozens of times before, but this time, Alex sensed Logan’s tension. He didn’t tell her about his day at work. He didn’t ask about hers. He didn’t tease her or joke around or ask who she wanted to see in the Stanley Cup finals. As if anyone in Florida really cared about hockey. But he was a Detroit man, born and raised. At any rate, silence—a tense one—was highly unusual for them. Which just made her worry all over again that she’d ruined something really, really good.
When they sat down at the table with their sandwiches and glasses of iced tea, Alex couldn’t stand the awkward silence any longer. She had to force herself to swallow her first bite. This was one of her favorite sandwiches, especially when Logan made it, yet it stuck in her throat like a chunk of dry chicken.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He continued to chew his bite, then washed it down with tea. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Alex tilted her head, baffled. “What? Why?”
He took another bite, his expression maddeningly unreadable. Once he swallowed, he said, “Do you have plans?”
“Well, no. I thought we’d order a pizza and watch a movie. You know, the usual.”
“What if we go out for dinner?”
“Out? As in to a restaurant?”
The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Yes, out to a restaurant. And we could see a movie afterward. At the theater.”
“Y
ou mean, like a date?”
He laughed, low and soft. “Yes, like a date.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So . . . we are a thing?”
His blue eyes, so bright and beautiful, darkened with seriousness . . . and serious heat. “Alex, when we’re a thing, you’ll know it.”
And then he grinned, and the sight of those damn sexy dimples swiped any remaining hope of a coherent response right out of her brain.
Oh, yeah.
CHAPTER TWO
Alex wiped her damp palms against her khaki-clad thighs, hyper-aware of the man in the driver’s seat next to her—the minty freshness of his breath, the hint of sunscreen and a touch of something new . . . a light, rain-scented, fresh cologne that teased. Nerves over their date hadn’t launched a full-out attack until his red Dodge Ram pickup had pulled into her driveway. Hadn’t helped that he’d strolled to her front door holding a fresh bouquet of daisies, as relaxed and handsome as ever in new jeans and a white polo that emphasized his muscled, sun-tanned arms.
She’d laughed nervously while she fumbled the flowers into a vase filled with water, feeling silly, and giddy, while he’d loved up her excited pooches. He’d gotten a haircut, for God’s sake.
She couldn’t remember ever having such intense nerves over a date.
She acknowledged that everything in her life felt more intense since she technically died three months ago. A man trying to kill her sister had shot Alex by mistake. Her heart had stopped in the operating room, and it had taken three zaps from defibrillator paddles to get her back.
Ever since, she’d felt different. She figured death did that to people. Made them more aware of the people around them. Made them feel emotions—compassion, pleasure, pain—on a deeper level. Or maybe her senses just seemed sharper, like a head that felt lighter, and better than before, once a blinding headache faded.
Whatever the cause, she thought she might have developed a serious crush on this man, and she couldn’t stop the big, dumb smile that spread through her entire body.
Afraid he would look at her and wonder what had made her smile so goofily, she cleared her throat and noted he’d pointed the pickup toward Lake Avalon Beach.
“Where are we going for dinner?” She had a craving for the tasty steamed shrimp at Antonio’s Beach Grill.
He glanced sideways at her, his lips quirking up at one corner in a way that twirled her stomach even more.
“It’s a surprise,” he said.
“This is weird,” she said, then hated the furious blush that raced up her neck. What was with her and the blurting lately? “I mean, isn’t it?”
He chuckled, low and sexy. “What’s weird? That we’re on a date?”
“Yeah. A date. Us.”
“Why are you so freaked out about it?”
“I’m not freaked. Not technically. I mean . . . well, aren’t you? A little? We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“I’m not surprised in the least. This is exactly where I intended to be once the time was right.”
While she appreciated a man who knew what he wanted—and the fact that he seemed to want her was a double, no, triple bonus—the timing puzzled her. “Why is now the right time?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re healed. Which means your head is clear and you’re over any of those urges to reaffirm life by jumping on the next guy who smiles at you.”
She remembered a moment several weeks ago when she’d had just that urge. Logan had showed up at her door with the ingredients for hot fudge sundaes and a DVD of the quirky dog- show film Best in Show. She’d thought then, This is the man of my dreams.
“And another,” he went on, “you noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
He grinned at her, his blue eyes glittering in a way that sent shimmering waves of anticipation all through her. “You noticed me.”
She felt her eyes widen in shock. “How could I not? You’ve been there for me.”
He shrugged. “That’s what friends do.”
She thought about that for a long moment. Friends didn’t do everything he’d done. Keeping her just busy enough to prevent insane boredom without robbing her of the energy she needed to heal. Taking six rambunctious dogs on long walks when she was too wrung out to give them the attention they deserved. Cooking elaborate, amazing meals for her (and cleaning up afterward). Mowing her yard. Watering her plants. Taking care of her garbage and recycling. Going with her to get groceries. Making her laugh on a bad day. Sitting quietly with her while she napped, probably hoping to prevent the recurring nightmare.
Her sister hadn’t done even half of that, and she’d done plenty.
So “that’s what friends do” was a major overstatement. But that was Logan. The most generous, kind man she’d ever known. And now they were on a date. Which made her wonder if her cluelessness had wasted precious time.
“Could we have gone on a date sooner if I’d said something?” she asked.
“Probably not. You needed to be back to a hundred percent.”
“Oh.” A hundred percent to go on a date? She’d been back to work for weeks, had even climbed a tree yesterday to get the perfect photo of a Lake Avalon resident’s prizewinning flower garden.
“This is going to be intense,” he added.
Her heart thudded, along with other, secret places. “Oh.”
“Just so you know.”
“Okay.”
“Not to make you more nervous.”
“Nervous? Me?” She shot a grin at him, relaxing for the first time since he’d arrived with such pretty, sweet flowers.
“Well, you have been squirmy since I picked you up.”
“Squirmy?” Great. Perfect. No sophistication here. She was such a doofus. “That sounds—”
“Adorable,” he cut in. “You’re adorable.”
She blushed again—doofus squared—and thought maybe she’d somehow suddenly become the luckiest woman on the planet. Hell, maybe Logan was her reward for surviving the shooting.
Before she could respond, he stiffened in his seat and slammed on the brakes. Alex braced a hand on the dashboard, wincing at the jerk of the seat belt across her still-tender chest . . . and watched in shock as the van in front of them tipped onto its side and began to violently roll across the oncoming lane of traffic. Miraculously, it hit no other vehicles before it rocked to a scratched-and-dented stop, upright in the ditch, its windshield a web of cracks beneath a caved-in roof.
Logan steered the truck onto the shoulder of the road, already releasing his seat belt and reaching into the cubby for his cell phone, which he handed to Alex. “Call 911,” he said, his voice deadly calm.
Speechless, Alex fumbled the phone, her hands shaking. Whoever was in that van might be dead, was undoubtedly dead if they hadn’t been wearing seat belts. And, oh crap, was that a trail of smoke snaking out from underneath?
Logan didn’t hesitate to shove open his door and sprint over to the destroyed van, easily falling into his role as a competent police detective, while she stumbled out of the truck, her fingers clumsy as she tried twice to dial the necessary numbers.
Other cars were stopping, drivers and passengers getting out and gawking. Alex heard a man say, “I already called 911,” as he walked up beside her. That allowed her to shift her attention from the damn phone to Logan as he tore open the van’s driver’s-side door and dragged out a screaming woman with blood pouring from a gash at her temple.
“Get my baby! Get my baby!”
“Hell,” the guy next to Alex said. “Her back tire blew. I saw it explode just before the van flipped.”
Alex’s journalistic training snapped into gear, and she dove back into the cab of Logan’s truck and dug through the camera bag she hauled around everywhere she went. Digital camera in hand, she ran back to the scene, where she started snapping photos of Logan as he delivered the hysterical woman to bystanders running up to help. Then he turned back toward the van, that, yes, was definitely smoking now. Big, black clouds,
the kind that looked to Alex like a precursor to a fiery explosion.
She should help, she thought. Run over there and do something. But she couldn’t move, her heart in her throat and her feet frozen to the ground as Logan jerked the bottom of his shirt up and over his mouth and nose and plunged into the billowing smoke. Oh, God, he shouldn’t do that. What if he got hurt? But it was his job as a police officer to help.
She belatedly remembered her own job and snapped a picture of his disappearing back. That’s what photojournalists do. They record the story. They don’t get involved.
As she waited for him to reappear, counting the seconds, her eyes stinging from the acrid air, she heard sirens in the distance. It all seemed so far away, her focus having narrowed down to the spot where she’d last seen Logan. She should have been taking more pictures of the chaotic rescue scene, but fear for him had constricted her chest muscles so much she could barely breathe.
Logan, come on, come on, where are you?
And then he stumbled out of the smoke with a small child cradled in his arms.
She released her held breath on a gust of air and brought the camera up to take the picture, already knowing it would make headlines. There was nothing newspaper readers loved more than a ragged hero streaked with blood, carrying a crying, soot-smudged child away from wreckage that looked like no one should have survived. Especially a hero as good-looking as John Logan, his eyes even more blue and penetrating in a face blackened by smoke, the child looking tiny and defenseless in his large, muscled arms.
That’s my guy, Alex thought, her heart swelling with pride. My hero.
He delivered the bawling child to her mother and turned toward Alex, his eyes streaming from the smoke, sweat making his hair spike. He was filthy, and she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him, to feel his beating heart against her. He could have died in that van.
