He hit another rusted hook, this time nicking his hand in the effort to knock it loose. “No, I’m—fuck—trying to close the damn shutters. A little help would be nice.”
After a second she jogged to the far end of the porch and started there, closing two shutters securely by the time he’d finally worked the stubborn hook loose. He caught up, finishing in time to meet her back in the middle and hold the front door open for her with a gesture that was as gallant as it was ironic.
“After you, ma’am.” He swept his hat off with his free hand, and water splashed from the brim and crown to the porch.
Mindy nodded, looking like she was trying not to laugh as she preceded him into the house. “Thanks.”
“Wait here.” He shut and latched the door behind them. “I’ll get you a towel. What are you doing here? When Robert said you weren’t in your cabin I thought maybe you’d . . . Well, I don’t know what I thought.”
She shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulder, wringing some drops from the ends onto the worse-for-wear entryway rug. “I don’t know. I guess I just figured it would be rude to leave without saying anything. Then the rain started, and there was no time, so—”
“Wait, wait. What?” Her words were like brakes, squealing in his brain. Every rational thought process slammed to a halt.
“—I’m probably stuck for the night. I should’ve just gone straight to my cabin, but—”
“Mindy.”
“Logan. Hey, how about that towel?” She flipped her hair back again, brushed at her sodden shirt, stubbornly refusing to make eye contact. As he hesitated, debating whether to question her further, a shattering flash of lightning lit the place like daylight through the front door window, and even as both of them jumped, a crash of way-too-close thunder rattled the house.
Something was up. But keeping Mindy wet and dripping on the doormat wasn’t going to help anything. Logan toed his boots off and slopped to the laundry room for two towels, pulling out his phone to check the texts he’d missed while outside wrangling the shutters. One was from Robert—he’d passed Mindy’s car on his way out of the parking lot. The other was from his cousin Chet.
Encountered Mindy Valek. Flickering taillight. Pecan pie and coffee @ Minnie’s. Souvenir magnets. Well-proportioned posterior.
Ah, Chet. Logan rubbed his hair with one towel as he brought the other back to a now-shivering Mindy. “You should come on in, I guess. Have you had dinner? Or just the pie?”
“Jesus, this town.” She blotted the ends of her hair, then wrapped the towel over her shoulders as she leaned on the wall for balance while she got her boots off.
“Yeah. That why you’re leaving?” Without saying a word, if the storm had let you get away with it. At this point Logan no longer knew how he should or shouldn’t feel about that—he had no idea what they owed one another. No clear idea what he even wanted from Mindy; he only knew he wanted and wasn’t going to have. He was just nice enough to know that the sense of disappointed entitlement made him a jerk, but that didn’t cancel out the frustration.
Her shoulders slumped, her expression went blank. “I was always leaving anyway. I should never have come. Staying at all was the crazy decision, right? Leaving makes sense.” She finally got enough leverage with her toe to shove her wet boot off. It landed on the floorboards with a sodden thud. “All kinds of sense.”
Logan gave up pretending the towel would help his shirt get any drier, and started to unbutton it, heading back down the hall toward the kitchen and laundry room. “Especially after yesterday. Okay, fine. And then the storm really fucked with your plan, I guess. That must’ve sucked.” He pulled the shirt off, transferring his sudden, ridiculous anger into jerky movements that made the task harder than necessary. “Shoulda checked the weather report a bit more closely.”
An uneven clomping sound behind him told him she was following. He glanced back. She was still struggling to get her other boot off, stopping every few steps to make another attempt.
He snorted. Fuck it. Let her figure it out on her own. Then he smacked himself upside the head and stopped, pointing into the mudroom where the washer and dryer stood. “There’s a bootjack by the back-back door there.”
“The back-back door?” She peered into the room.
He flipped the light on and pointed again. “There. It’s the back-back door because the kitchen door is the back door. Folks used to come in through the kitchen, and my grandmother got sick of it, so when she had the big washers and dryers put in, she insisted on a mudroom for that. So everybody could come in the back-back door and leave their shitkickers on the screen porch off the mudroom. Her wise contribution to the folly.” He watched as Mindy made quick use of the old cast-iron bootjack, then dutifully turned the light back off after she was finished.
“I’ll just put this up front with the other one.” She vanished down the hall, and Logan leaned against the doorjamb separating the kitchen and the mudroom, giving himself a moment to breathe.
Robert had left a load of sheets or something tumbling in the dryer. The sweet smell of fabric softener and the rhythmic, familiar sound calmed Logan’s nerves a small amount. Not quite enough to compensate for the sudden shock of Mindy’s news. The problem wasn’t her wanting to leave, so much. It was his instant rejection of the idea. His whole being had yelled such a firm Nope that he was still shaking it off.
But as Mindy had said, the crazy decision had been for her to stay once it was clear he wasn’t interested in leasing the mineral rights. And, Logan reminded himself, he was angry at her for her deception. He should be glad she wanted to leave.
But sex, his lizard brain pointed out. Compatible kinks. Lock that shit down.
He wanted to lock it down. He wanted to lock that down all night long. Maybe even literally. She was stuck here in the storm anyway, couldn’t possibly make the drive back to Dallas safely until tomorrow. She had named the giant spider in her cabin Moose. And she looked like a sunset until she smiled, and that was pure sunrise. Dammit.
He heard her footsteps in the hall and straightened up, then smiled at the sight of her coming through the kitchen doorway with her hair wrapped up in the towel. Her eyes flicked to his bare chest and he couldn’t resist the tiniest pec flex.
“Could I get another towel? And do you mind pointing me to a restroom? I have another shirt I can change into . . .”
She held up a plastic shopping bag he hadn’t noticed her holding before. More than souvenir magnets, it looked like. “Uh, sure. It’s back down the hall, under the stairs. Would you rather just have a robe?”
He leaned back into the laundry room, reached for one of the high shelves by the door, and pulled down a robe—a thick, creamy, monogrammed prototype, still wrapped in plastic with a wide grosgrain ribbon tied around the bundle. His grandparents had always offered them for sale to guests; Logan was still deciding whether it was worth it, but he was glad he had a sample to hand Mindy in her hour of need.
She eyed the packaged robe, then him. “I should really just grab some food and head back to my cabin.” Another thunderclap nearly drowned out her words.
“Not until this dies down. I can just see the headlines. ‘Tragedy Strikes at Hilltop.’ ‘Local Homecoming Queen Meets Shocking End.’ ‘Area Man’s Dude Ranch Dream Struck Down by Lightning.’”
“Those are not good headlines.”
“I know.”
“I mean, they’re not well constructed for—oh, fine, just give me the robe.”
Then she smiled. Dammit.
He started to hand her the robe, but held on to it. “I don’t want you to leave.”
She tugged at the plastic. “I won’t walk back in the thunderstorm. You’re right, that’s not—”
“No, I mean early. I don’t want you to leave early. I want you to stay. Not just because of the rain.” Not just for sex, but he wasn’t willing to examine that part too closely yet. He certainly wasn’t willing to discuss it. But it had to be Mindy’s decision, anyway.
All he could do was put it out there. This . . . very slightly open emotional door. He could just point out that it was there and it was open and she was welcome to come in for a visit.
Or something.
Her fingers curled around the pale blue ribbon. She tugged harder, finally freeing the robe from his hands. The smile was gone. “Look, I’m having a lot of fun with you, okay? I’m enjoying your company.” She held the robe against her chest like armor.
Logan squinted, trying to read her expression and failing utterly. Her mouth said “fun” and “enjoy,” but her face and body said “miserable,” and he couldn’t figure it out. “I’m having fun, too. We’re enjoying each other.”
“And that’s exactly why I can’t stay.”
* * *
She lingered in the powder room as long as possible, probably longer than was reasonable. After she used the restroom, washed her hands, stripped off her clothes, and toweled herself dry, she bundled into the robe and sat down to think and avoid facing Logan again. She knew eventually he’d come knocking, and that she shouldn’t wait long enough for that to happen. But he gave her more time than she expected.
She heard his footsteps, heavy on the stairs over her head, while she was changing. He came back down a few minutes later, thumping unevenly like he was taking the steps a few at a time. Still a gangly, dorky teenager inside. Of course, she was no better.
Washing her hands a second time bought her a few seconds more. She tested some of the vanilla-scented hand lotion from the brass-topped pump dispenser on the marble vanity. Admired the dark red flocked wallpaper—it looked delightfully like something from an old-timey bordello, which she suspected was the goal. Studied the three delicately tinted old photographs of ladies with Gibson girl updos and bee-stung lips.
Either Logan’s grandma had decorated this room, or somebody’s grandmother had, and it was perfect. If she could just stay in this tiny, carefully curated space, nothing bad could ever befall her, and she would never have to face life on the other side of the door again.
Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her this plan had flaws. Stress always made her hungry, and she’d gone light on lunch in anticipation of pie.
Cursing softly at herself, she scooped up her wet clothes in the damp towel, placed her hand on the crystal doorknob, and steeled herself for the confrontation.
She opened the door to an empty hallway and the sound of swelling violins. She followed it to the kitchen, where Logan was humming along to the classical music and putting food on a plate, complete with hand flourishes in time with the music after he placed each item. He’d changed into plaid flannel lounge pants that hung on his hips in an almost painfully flattering way.
“Ba-dum-dum-dum!” He flipped a piece of brisket onto the china and then pulled the fork away, waving it in the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra while the music swooped into a particularly romantic passage. Outside, the sky flickered and boomed in perfect natural counterpoint. A branch was blown along the shuttered kitchen window just as the violins skittered into moody disorder. Logan had chosen the perfect soundtrack for the storm. It thundered again, and he echoed with a sound-effect boom-crash noise, twirling his fork to bring the flutes into play as the lightning flashed.
Finally she cleared her throat. “Nice music.”
Logan jumped back from the counter, whirling around. “Mindy!”
Were they doing that again? “Logan.”
He grinned, dragging his gaze slowly down to her toes then back up, as if the fluffy robe was the hottest outfit he’d ever seen. Then he waggled his eyebrows. “Mindy . . .”
She held her hands up in the universal back-off gesture, punctuating it with a stern glare. “Logan.”
“Fair enough. Uh, I put together some of the brisket and potatoes, broccoli. Sorry, no cheese sauce left.” He brought the plate and utensils to the island and set it down with another flourish, not quite as grand as his earlier display. “I figured you could eat while we talk.”
Her stomach gurgled at the sight of the food. There was no use resisting; she made for the stool and picked up the fork. “Okay. So I wouldn’t have pegged you for a classical music guy.”
He sucked air through his teeth, studying the lamp for a second. “I guess this would be a bad time to make a joke about how you wouldn’t have pegged me at all.”
“You just made the joke, though.” She sliced a piece of brisket.
“Right, right.”
“Wasn’t that funny.”
The first bite of meat melted in her mouth. It was heaven. That rarest of all things, a tender brisket. She had to concentrate to make sense of Logan’s response.
“You’re just hangry. So the music is, uh . . . what my granddad always used to play out here when the weather got bad. He had an LP. Probably still in the bookcase in the front parlor, come to think of it. It’s Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture. He thought it sounded like a thunderstorm rolling in.”
She nodded, too involved in the brisket to express any further surprise. The bathroom had been good, but this was better, this warmly lit kitchen with a plate full of delicious food.
Served to her by a handsome, problematic man she couldn’t let herself fall for.
Tracking her fork through the mashed potatoes, she considered a moment, framing her words. She had made a decision. She ought to stick to it. “So here’s my problem. I thought it could just be a few scenes. You know? We’d do that while I was here, it would be a kinky vacation, we’d both get some stress relief. No harm, no foul, no hard feelings about why I came here in the first place. But. I need to leave because I’m having as much fun building fire pits and listening to you talk about your grandfather’s rain music as I am getting my ass switched and rubbing off on you in the spider shack. Obviously you’re not somebody I can be involved with. For many reasons. But mostly conflict of interest, plus history and geography. And I feel like I’m really crossing the streams, here, in ways I normally am very careful to avoid.” She exhaled hard and finally took the bite, studying her plate to give Logan a chance to think about his response.
“So,” he started. Then he breathed out hard, echoing her, and took a long pause before trying again. “So my first instinct is to tell you, my dick’s not that magic. If you’re worried you’ll be drawn into my thrall if we actually fuck, and therefore be unable to leave when the week is up, I can reassure you that hasn’t been my experience with women in the past. I mean, I do okay.” He shrugged, then grabbed his crotch through his flannel pants like he was reassuring himself. “I do just fine. I’ve had no complaints. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s an okay size, disease-free, I’m fairly confident I know what to do with it. I’m just saying, it doesn’t emit magic spooge or anything.”
“I’ve met it,” she reminded him, once she’d managed to swallow the potatoes without snort-laughing them out her nose. “Fairly recently, too. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”
“Just saying.”
She put a hand on his arm and gave him an earnest pat. “I wasn’t concerned about becoming enthralled by your magic spooge.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He scooped a dab of potato up with his index finger and ate it, so quickly she almost missed it. “If that’s not a danger, then, what is it?”
The guy who makes me laugh about magic spunk, and the circus horse he rode in on. “You’re a weird Dom.”
“I’m an awesome Dom. Answer the question, Melinda.” He brought the Dom voice into play, dropped into it just like that. Shot her the Blue Steel look and everything. Lethal. Did he have a license to concealed-carry that weapon?
She decided to go for something like honesty. Not the whole truth, but a big part of it. “It’s this place. Not the ranch, the town. Being back here’s just . . . It’s stirred up a lot of shit for me. And I don’t want to wallow in that. That’s not me.” That part was the lie. Because this was her, this diner-pie girl, this woman who’d kept those broken-in boots in the back of the clos
et for so many years. The dust from this place was in her blood. Even taciturn Bernie at the general store had sounded right to her ears. So she told another partial truth. “I’m homesick.” And if she stayed in Bolero, if she gave in to the homesickness that wanted to keep her here, she’d lose the life she’d spent so much time and energy and passion building.
Logan sounded right, felt right. Smelled and tasted right. But only because—she insisted to herself—he was the focal point for this wave of nostalgia. The living embodiment of Bolero, with kink on top as an added enticement. And it was enticing. So much so she could barely breathe when they made eye contact for any length of time. But that would fade once she got back to Dallas, saw her friends, hit the club, went back to the office.
He nodded, the stern face thawing into friendly sympathy. “And I’ve been kind of an asshole to you.” He returned the friendly pat, his big hand warming her arm through the robe. As he leaned in, she could still smell the rain on him. His bare chest took up her whole field of view. “You know, what with literally beating you and all.”
“So, are we even, then? For my sneaking around at the beginning?” She hoped it sounded light and casual, but she doubted it. Honestly, she wondered how she was even coherent. He’d left his hand on her arm instead of taking it away after the condescending gesture, and her heart had started to pound, and now her face and pussy were both buzzing with heat, and she was screwed, she was just absolutely screwed.
Logan slid his hand down to hers, smoothed his fingers around to her palm, and teased open her clenched fist so he could lace their fingers together. “I’d say we’re nearly even, sure. A little extra reinforcement couldn’t hurt, but I want to leave that up to you. So I can make up one of the spare beds—which, I’ll warn you, won’t be that comfortable, I still need to replace some mattresses—or the couch in the office, which is probably a better bet. Or we can get freaky for a while, and then if you want, you can sleep with me. Any combination of those things would be fine.”
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