by Melissa Tagg
“Push to release, let go to stop. Got it. I wish I had a fishing vest. And one of those hats.” She waved the pole as she talked. “And waders, because how cool are waders?”
He closed his hand around hers to still the pole, his smile traveling through him. “For never having gone fishing, you’ve got a handle on the style.”
“I’m well-read, Logan.”
“Hey?”
She inspected the reel. “Hmm?”
“I’ve hardly seen you the past couple days. You sorta disappeared after D.C. You didn’t show up at the Market this morning. I thought maybe . . .” Well, he didn’t know what he’d thought.
Only that he’d missed her.
She met his eyes. “I guess I . . . let go of something today.”
It was all she said, but the release—maybe even peace—in her voice made it enough for now. Hand still covering hers, he guided her thumb to the button. “Okay, when you cock the rod back, push the button. When you point, release.”
But her focus had landed on his bruising knuckles—faint reddish-blue, the hint of swelling—and before he could make any move to help her cast, she looked up at him. “Does it hurt?”
Not his hand so much as the reminder of Rick’s words. “She deserves more than a dad who’d lose her in a storm.”
Instead of waiting for him to answer, Amelia lowered the pole, set it on the bridge beside her, and reached for his hand. She held it in hers—her touch light, her thumb brushing over its ridges—and in a move that made him catch his breath, she lifted it to her lips. One by one, she kissed each knuckle—one, two, three, four. Lips feather-soft and delicate, and together with the coconut scent of her hair and the care in her every movement, it was enough to hush every harried voice inside him.
She turned his hand over, pressed a kiss to his palm. Five. And everything stilled.
When she lifted her head, he moved his hand to her cheek.
“I let go of something today.”
Maybe that was what he was doing now, as his fingers grazed her cheek, her hair tickling over his skin. He could lose himself in the copper warmth of her eyes.
Except, no, this wasn’t losing himself.
This was finding something precious.
And so he kissed her. Not like last time, as if he was desperate and it was his only chance. But soft. Slow. Once, twice, and then—when she leaned in—again. No counting, no sense at all of time or anything beyond her lips and his fingers in her hair and now her palm on his chest.
And only when he was breathless did he pull back, just barely, to whisper, “I’d have gone and started punching people a lot earlier if I knew it came with this kind of consequence.”
He could feel her smile.
“And if I’d known kissing you was like this, I’d have gone and done it that first night you came home, even if you did criticize my snowman.”
He touched his forehead to hers, laughing. “Although if you’d kissed me when I thought you were Emma . . .”
“Good point.” The wind brushed through her hair again. “Now, are you going to teach me to fish or what?”
“One condition: Go on a date with me tonight?”
Maybe Eleanor hadn’t been the right person to ask for fashion advice, after all. Amelia glanced down at the burnt-orange, beige, and cornflower-blue pattern of her summer dress—then at the spot Logan had apparently picked for their date. The Kendall Wilkins Library.
“Logan, it’s after five on a Saturday. The library’s closed. What are we doing here?”
“Patience, Curious George.” He patted her bare knee. “Wait here.”
Rain fell in sheets from a blanket of clouds so thick it made the evening seem later than it was. But at least the sky had cleared out long enough this afternoon for the Market to continue. Spring had finally settled in and, for once, she didn’t mourn the end of winter.
They’d had lunch with Case and Charlie at the house before heading downtown, where big-band music piped through the band shell speakers and the smell of popcorn and sweets hovered over the square. Logan had held her hand as they’d wandered through squishy grass and a maze of booths and tables and then stood outside the bouncy castle while Charlie jumped around inside. He’d bought Amelia a handmade necklace at one table. She’d watched him ogle an antique typewriter at another.
And then, about ninety minutes ago, he’d dropped her off at her house. Told her he’d be back for her at six.
She’d spent the next hour on a video chat with Eleanor, trying on one outfit after another. “You can’t go wrong with a sun dress, Amelia. Dress it up with some jewelry. Wear sandals and bring along a jean jacket in case you end up somewhere more casual.”
It’d sounded like good advice at the time, but the library? She could’ve stuck with cargo shorts and a tank top.
Logan was coming around the car now, opening an umbrella and then her door, that Walker grin of his just oozing charm as she slid out. The tips of his hair were still wet from a shower, and the smell of whatever rustic cologne he wore was downright intoxicating.
“Won’t the library be locked?” Did her voice seriously just squeak? She reached down to grab her purse, and when she rose, Logan and the still-open car door blocked her from going any farther.
“You underestimate me, Miss Bentley.” He dug into the pocket of his khakis and came up with a key.
“How’d you get that?”
“So many questions.”
“I’m a reporter. That’s what we do.” Although he was standing so close, she couldn’t have eked out another question if she’d tried. Rain pattered over the umbrella like music.
Logan’s fingers curled around hers. “Well then, if you’ll recall, my little sister happens to work here.” He tugged her away from the car, careful to keep the umbrella over her.
“Raegan gave you a key? I bet she could get fired for that.”
“I bet not. I saw the library director talking to my dad at the Market. I think she might have a crush on him.”
Not hard to believe. Not if the old “like father, like son” adage had any truth to it. And for the hundredth time today, pure, unadulterated delight whisked through her—fluffy and as sweet as the cotton candy Logan had bought her at the Market. Poor man had cringed as she and Charlie had eaten the whole bag, rambled on about sugar and artificial flavoring.
And she’d stood there wondering how in the world she’d gone thirty years without knowing this man . . . and how Maple Valley was ever going to feel right again when he left.
Don’t think about that now. Not tonight.
Somewhere down the line, it’d become her mantra. Don’t think too far ahead. Pretend he’s not leaving. Enjoy this while you can. Not nearly as hard to do when his palm was glued to hers under the rhythm of rainfall.
Logan handed the umbrella to her when they reached the front entrance, unlocked the door, and let them inside.
“What if there’s a security system?”
“Then we get arrested, and in one fell swoop get a great first-date story and something to put on the front page next week. Win-win.” He retrieved the umbrella, shook it off, and leaned it against the wall, then grasped her hand again. “Now, pizza is getting here in half an hour. I know it’s not fancy—”
“I love pizza way more than I love fancy.”
“I know you do.” He nudged her toward the stairs leading down to the children’s department. “And plus, I was busy getting some other things ready, so dinner wasn’t the main priority for this date.”
Their footsteps rapped against the marble steps, the shadows of bookshelves and tables rising from the basement, only the red of an Exit sign and impulsive darts of lightning through recessed windows bouncing against the dark.
She huddled closer to Logan, and he surprised her with a kiss on the cheek.
“What other things?” Her voice was breathless around the question, her curiosity about tonight and her fear of some vague tomorrow when, in one direction or the other
, Logan would wind up half a country away, suddenly taking a backseat. “What other things did you have to get ready?”
“Again with the questions.”
“Just call me Barbara Walters.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I just kissed you, Amelia. And I’m pretty sure at some point tonight—possibly multiple points—I’d like to again. I’d rather not have the picture of you as an eighty-year-old in a pantsuit in my head when I do.”
“Fair enough. But what other things?”
He steered her toward the east end of the children’s library, where the circulation desk and librarian’s office were set up to look like a treehouse. “You’ll know soon enough. But I have to show you something else first. I think Raegan said it was down here.”
“You’re very mysterious tonight, Logan Walker.” They stopped at the desk. “I like it.”
He released her hand and rounded the desk, gaze skimming over the shelves lining the wall behind it.
“And just so you know, I’m totally holding back right now from asking what you’re looking for. Because if I do, you’ll make a twenty-questions crack or worse, start picturing me in polyester and then you might never kiss me again.”
“Found it.” He whipped around, a flat picture book in hand.
It took a second to sink in. The salmon-pink cover, plastic curling at the corners. The ’70s-ish cartoon picture of a plane. The title written in clouds. Amelia Takes Flight.
“My book?” The one about Amelia Earhart, the one she’d checked out so many times as a kid. The one she’d written about in that scholarship essay. “How . . . where . . . ?”
He circled the desk once more and handed it to her. “I called the library in Des Moines last week. I didn’t think they’d have it anymore, but I thought they might at least be able to look up your name in the system and tell me the title. Which they could, and even better, they were able to tell me it was sold—along with a bunch of old books—to a library that was just getting started in a small town right on the border of Iowa and Nebraska. So I called that library, and lo and behold, they found it on the shelf.”
She flattened her palm on the cover. “Wait, this isn’t just a copy of the book? This is the book?”
“Yeah. Chalk one up for interlibrary loan. Raegan called me yesterday to tell me it came in. Oh, and get this: I asked the librarian in Des Moines if their system tracked how many times you checked it out as a kid—and it does. Thirty-seven times. And here I thought you were exaggerating.”
She cracked it open, the pages faded with age and stained with fingerprints—some probably her own. She knew each line on each page before she even turned to it. “I was so fascinated by this book.”
“Not going to lie, I’m a little fascinated at how fascinated you are.”
She looked up, met his eyes. “You interlibrary-loaned a book for me, Logan Walker.”
He shrugged. “Some guys buy flowers, some guys track down picture books.”
She hugged the book to her chest. “This is so much better than flowers.” And he was so much better than anything she’d imagined back when he was just a name and a legend.
He stepped closer to her, another flash of lightning giving her a glimpse of the warmth in his brown eyes. His hands went to her bare arms, still clutching the book between them. “Hey.”
Goosebumps trailed over her skin. “Hey what?”
“You being worried I’d picture you in a polyester suit and never kiss you again?” His fingers slid down her arms to her waist. “Not gonna happen.”
“No?” She wriggled the book free, set it on the desk, then leaned into Logan, arms tucked under his.
“Not a chance.”
And then he proved it by kissing her. No quick peck on the cheek this time. This was the real thing—soft and slow and perfect. And when a growl of thunder interrupted, scared her into jerking away, he only pulled her closer, hold tightening and another kiss that turned into another . . . and another . . .
Her head spun. Or maybe that was her heart. Or everything.
She couldn’t get enough of him. “Logan.” It was almost a gasp.
He barely pulled back, just as breathless as she was. “Too much?”
“No.” The opposite, really. Not nearly enough. “You’re leaving.”
She felt his hands slide down her back. “Let’s not talk about that. I haven’t even bought a return ticket.”
She laid her head on his chest. “But it’s happening. Los Angeles or D.C., doesn’t even matter which. The point is . . .” She couldn’t make herself ignore it anymore. Not when with every passing minute any possibility of not falling apart when he left became less and less likely.
“Amelia . . .”
When he didn’t go on, she tipped her head. His gaze was a mix of intense and uncertain. As if he knew what he wanted to say but wasn’t sure he should.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
He shook his head and stepped back. “I’ve been telling myself not to think about it.”
“Same here.”
“Let’s make a pact: We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll do our best to forget. Deal?” He held out his hand.
“Deal.” She placed her palm in his.
“I can think of better ways to seal the deal than a handshake, but honestly, if I kiss you again, we might never get to the rest of the evening.”
“Right, the other things you apparently got ready.” She grabbed the Earhart picture book and let him lead her upstairs to the adult department. They walked through the center aisle. Lightning pulsed in flashes overhead through the domed ceiling. They wound up near the back, where a long glass window and an open cherrywood door peeked into a small study room.
“Here we are.”
She stepped into the cramped room—only space for a couple chairs and a table covered with . . . wait . . . her laptop? She hadn’t even noticed it was missing when she was at the house. But that wasn’t all. All her Kendall Wilkins notes were spread over the table’s surface. Her folders. Photos. Newspaper clippings.
“How . . . when . . . ?”
“Raegan played errand girl for me this afternoon. She got your house key from Sunny Klassen.”
“You guys are sneaky.”
“I thought we’d make it a working date—at least for some of the night. You should’ve seen the way your face lit up at the bridge when you told me about Kendall and Harry’s war experience.”
“It adds a whole new angle to the story.” She’d recited the email from Harry’s granddaughter for him as he’d taught her how to cast the fishing rod.
“And I know you’re a little disappointed that you still don’t know what was in that safe-deposit box. But do you really need to know? You’ve pretty much proven your point—there was supposed to be something in there. He wasn’t pranking the town.”
“Right.” True. She could write the story without solving the mystery of the box’s missing contents.
“And you said you’ve never been more excited or more nervous about a single story, that you weren’t sure how to even get started. I thought maybe I could help you do that. Get started, I mean. I know it’s work, but the whole writing, wordsmithing thing—we both love it. Could be fun.” He lifted his eyebrows in question. “And there will be pizza.”
And there would be him. Which was so, so clearly the best part.
“If you’d rather not—”
“Are you kidding? Write a story with the Logan Walker?” She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Best.” His other cheek. “Date.” His nose. “Ever.”
He backed her into the room with a kiss of his own. “I think we might be lucky if we get a single word written.”
The clang of a door closing wrenched Logan from a hazy sleep. One arm numb, the other spread out beside him on . . . the floor? He was on a floor? And not alone, either.
It registered at a turtle’s pace—the library, the date, Amelia. They’d worked for a couple ho
urs on her story, eating slices of pizza while they took turns typing. They’d taken a break around nine, roamed around the dark library, wound up down in the children’s department again in the storytime room, where plastic glow-in-the-dark stars were stuck all over the ceiling.
He’d coaxed Amelia to the floor, made up stories about made-up constellations to make her laugh.
And now . . .
She curled against him, her head tucked against his chin, her arm over his chest.
“Logan?”
He blinked, tried to focus. The clatter of footsteps sounded in the distance, and was that Raegan’s voice?
“I saw your car, so I know you’re still here.”
Oh man . . .
He wrenched free from his sleepy daze and jerked upright. Amelia tumbled over, her head hitting the floor as she gasped awake.
“Sorry, sorry.” He leaned over her, an apologetic laugh toppling out. “Your poor head.”
She dragged her eyes open. “What . . . where . . . ?”
“Logan!” Raegan’s voice again.
Now Amelia’s eyes were open . . . and wide. “We fell asleep? What time is it?”
He combed his fingers through his hair. “No idea.”
Raegan flew into the room. “There you are. Logan—” She cut off, glancing at Amelia, then back to him, thinking who knows what about how she’d found them. But she only shook her head. “You need to come, Logan. Charlie’s on her way to the hospital—”
“What?”
“And the police need to talk to you.”
16
Okay, what we’re looking at here is an incomplete fracture. That’s good news.”
Logan was sitting in a hospital room, holding Charlie’s hand—the one not propped on a pillow and ice pack—while a police officer waited outside the room to question him.
About an assault charge.
Filed by his father-in-law.
