What the Heart Wants: An Opposites Attract Anthology

by Jeanne McDonald

  “She wanted to Skype.”

  “You—”

  “Enough questioning Charlotte, Charles,” my mother interrupted. “Is Sally all right?’

  “Yeah, she’s fine. Man trouble,” I offered lamely.

  My mother huffed through her nose, her impatience clear. She only approved of Sally because of her parentage, not because she liked her as a person. I wasn’t sure my mother truly liked anyone. “There usually is with Sally.”

  My father made a strange noise. “At least she has a man in her life.”

  My head fell back with a sigh. “Really, Dad? You can’t let up on that?”

  He handed me the potatoes, frowning when I passed them onto my mother. “A woman your age should be married.”

  “When I meet the right person.”

  “Is that all you’re going to eat? I noticed you barely ate your sandwich at lunch during the meeting. You’re far too thin these days.”

  “Oookay . . . Can we stop the picking on Charlotte today?”

  Mom laid down her fork. “Enough. Both of you. You’re ruining my appetite with this bickering. Charles, let the girl live her life.” She turned to me. “Show your father some respect. He deserves it.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, and my mother interrupted me. “And your father is right. You are too thin. Eat your dinner.”

  “I’m fine. I wasn’t hungry at lunch.”

  My father lifted the bowl of potatoes again in my direction. “And now?”

  With a sigh, I accepted the potatoes, adding them to my plate. I wasn’t overly hungry, but if it got him off my back, I would eat the damn potatoes.

  After dinner, I helped clear the table. It was Jane’s night off. I missed our housekeeper’s sunny disposition, but I would see her next time. I was loading the dishwasher, when my mother spoke.

  “You know your father is concerned, Lottie. He has told me how distracted you are in the office.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “You aren’t yourself.”

  I wanted to ask her if she knew who I was anymore. But I refrained.

  I shut the door, straightened up, and met her serious, deep brown eyes. I looked like my father, and I had his blue eyes, but I was built like my mother with the same chestnut brown hair. Although, hers might receive a little help these days from her favorite salon. I was small, with delicate features, the same way she was, and inside, we were both fighters. We simply fought things differently.

  Except lately, the fight had gone out of me.

  “It’s . . . work.”

  “What about it?”

  I shrugged, unsure how to say the words aloud.

  “Are you not happy with the project? Perhaps your father could put you on a different one.”

  I dragged in some much-needed oxygen. “I’m not sure I want any project, Mom.”

  Understanding widened her eyes. “Lottie. Have you talked to your father about this?”

  “I can’t. I don’t know how to. You know his expectations.”

  “You need to speak with him. He would listen to you. He is your father, first.”

  I wanted to ask her if she honestly believed that. It felt as if he was Charles first, and my father a distant second. It had been that way for years.

  Since the day we lost Josh.

  She reached over the counter, clasping my hand, her voice low and sad. “You can’t bring him back by giving up your life, you know. He’d hate it if he knew you were trying.”

  “I know,” I mumbled, shocked by her words. She never spoke of Josh.

  Our gazes locked, and for a moment I saw her pain. Then she straightened her shoulders, and the cool mask I was used to seeing reappeared.

  “If you need to do this, please approach your father carefully. He has already lost enough.”

  I heard the subtle warning behind her words, and I shook my head wildly. I thought of the look that would cross his face if I told him. The crushing disappointment. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t be the one to do that to him. I already owed him so much.

  “It’ll pass, Mom. The latest project is just very stressful. As soon as this next project completes, I’ll take a little time off. Maybe Sally and I will go on a vacation. I’ll be fine.”

  She sighed, folding a dishtowel and laying it on the counter. “I’ll be watching, Lottie.”

  I stood, reaching for my coat. “I had better get going.”

  Mom stared at me knowingly. “Escaping while your father is on the phone so he won’t insist on a car for you?”

  I bent over and kissed her cheek. “You know as well as I do that Rodney will watch me walk down the street to the subway. I am perfectly safe. I have a five-minute walk on the other end.”

  She shook her head. “So independent.”

  “It’s all I have.”

  She regarded me, frowning. “Your father doesn’t want you unhappy. Neither do I. I know you’re trying, just . . . try a little harder, all right? Many young ladies would love to have your opportunities.”

  I tamped down my retort and smiled at my mother. The fleeting moment that passed between us earlier was gone. Any hope she would speak to my father on my behalf disappeared. She always sided with him. “Of course.”

  She patted my cheek. “Like you said, you can take a break when this next project is done.”

  “Right. I’ll consider it later.”

  “Good.”

  “Goodnight, Mom.”

  I hurried away; worried my father would appear from the den and stop me.

  My feet dragged coming off the subway; weariness made my body feel older than my twenty-four years. I climbed the steps, welcoming the cold air as I exited the station, and I tucked my scarf tight around my neck. I walked sluggishly, not in any hurry. I doubted I would sleep much with everything on my mind.

  I felt trapped. I truly despised my job, yet I had no idea how to get out of it. My father owned the firm, and I was the apparent heir. It was expected of me. My heart ached when I thought of the reason why. It should have been Josh. Like my father, he loved all elements of business. He soaked it all up like a sponge. He had been the golden child, groomed to take over and carry on the Preston name. I was just the little girl, loved for being the baby of the family, with no expectations placed on me, until Josh got sick.

  It happened fast. One day he was fine, and it seemed, at least to the child I was then, the next he was dangerously ill. Life revolved around the hospital and Josh. All I heard were discussions and plans for treatment options. Nothing else mattered. As options were tried, and failed, my parents began to shut down. When the doctors discussed stem cell treatments, my parents were tested, but they came back as not a good match. Then he was put on the OneMatch Network, but time was running out. All I knew was I missed my big brother and I wanted him home. I wanted life to go back to the way it was. When the doctors suggested, despite my age, I be tested, that there was a good chance I could be a match, I saw the hope in my parents’ eyes. I’d known how important it was that it work. I had been the last hope to save Josh.

  But it didn’t work, and I will never forget the disappointed look on my father’s face as he turned away. I had failed.

  The day Josh died, my entire family did. It was as if they forgot about me. I tried so hard to get their attention. To bring back the people I once knew as my parents. I excelled at school. I put aside my silly dreams of being a pastry chef and concentrated on business. I went to work for my father; since I was certain that was what he wanted.

  I tried to step into Josh’s shoes. To make up for his loss to my parents by giving them my life.

  I failed at that, as well.

  It was late when I switched off my desk lamp. My clock chimed out eight bells as I slipped on my coat, stretching out my sore muscles. I didn’t bother packing my laptop tonight. By the time I got home and had something to eat, it would be time to sleep, and I’d be back to work early.

  I sat, unseeing, on the subway. My br
ain was still processing the day. The meetings melted into one another, the emails and to-do lists constant. I could barely keep up. I wasn’t sleeping well, and my appetite was almost non-existent. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep going that way.

  My stop approached and I stood, feeling the sadness of knowing I wouldn’t see him tonight. I had missed him one night last week, as well. The next day, when our eyes met across the platform, I was certain I had seen relief flash across his face, but that was probably wishful thinking. I had sat for a few minutes, listening to him, letting his music soak into my soul, then headed home to another evening of more work.

  I wouldn’t even have those few minutes tonight.

  However, as I rounded the corner, I halted in shock when I saw him, leaning against the wall, lazily strumming his guitar, an abstract tune I hadn’t heard. His head lifted, our gazes locked, and happiness welled in my chest. I didn’t know why he was there so late, and I didn’t care. He was there. That was all that mattered.

  The station wasn’t busy, and I sat close to listen. He began another song—one of my favorites—and I leaned back, letting my eyes shut, as the notes drifted over me, low and sweet. When he began to sing, a tear slipped down my cheek at the richness of his voice. It felt as though he was singing only to me. Another wistful thought, but it was how I felt.

  His voice wrapped around me like a lover’s embrace. I felt warm, soothed, and my body eased for the first time since I had left his presence last night. As the song faded away, another began, and I let myself remain. I needed that, him, so much tonight. With a sigh, I let my head fall forward, immersing myself in the song. His fingers coaxed the notes from the guitar, his voice weaved a spell around him and me.

  And my miserable world disappeared.

  Something was different. The music still played, but it sounded close. I blinked open my eyes, realizing, in horror, that I had fallen asleep in the subway station. I sat up straight, panicked.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay,” a voice soothed.

  I knew that voice, but not from hearing it spoken. It was always raised in song. I turned my head, shocked to find him beside me. He sat, his guitar on his lap as he strummed, never missing a note.

  “I’ve been watching over you.”

  “Wh–what?”

  He stopped playing. “You fell asleep. I made sure you were okay.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.”

  He tilted his head and studied me. “You’re working too hard. You’re exhausted.”

  I shifted, uncomfortable with his accurate observation.

  His fingers stopped their strumming, and he rested his hands on the guitar. “I’ve overstepped. I apologize.”

  “You don’t know me; I’m not sure you should be making a statement like that.”

  He held out his hand. “Let’s change that, then. I’m Montgomery Logan.”

  I stared at his hand. His fingers were long, the nails neatly trimmed. He waited patiently until I slipped my hand into his. He closed his fingers around mine, pressing lightly. And again waited, lifting one eyebrow.

  “Charlotte Preston.”

  He squeezed my hand. “It’s great to meet you, Charlotte.”

  “Lottie. My friends call me Lottie.”

  He smiled, his dimple deepening. “My friends call me Logan. Montgomery is a mouthful.”

  “Logan,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Now we’re on first name basis, I assume we’re friends?”

  “Okay?”

  He leaned forward and winked. “You look tired, Lottie. You need to take better care of yourself.”

  That made me chuckle. “Okay.”

  He lifted the guitar off his lap, placing it inside the case, shutting the lid. He bent over, rested his arms on his thighs, and studied me. “You’re late tonight.”

  “I was busy at work.” I paused then looked around. “Are you always here at this time?”

  He grinned, his face transforming into one of mischief. “Nope. I was waiting for you.”

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “I waited last week, too. You know, the night you pulled your little stunt.”

  “I didn’t see you when I got back.”

  He shrugged. “I got hungry, so I went across the street and got something to eat. I saw you come out of the station, and I made sure you got home.”

  “You-you what?”

  “I followed you.”

  I stared at him. He said it as if it meant nothing. As if following someone was normal. I swallowed, a frisson of fear running down my spine.

  He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “You should see the look on your face right now. I bet you’re trying to decide if you should run now or call the cops, aren’t you?”

  I licked my dry lips. “Um . . .”

  He shook his head. “That came out wrong. I saw you come out of the station. I stepped outside the coffee shop and watched you walk to your building.”

  “How do you know it was my building?”

  “I’ve seen you come out of it. I live past you by a couple of blocks,” he explained. “I wasn’t following you.” He held up his hands. “Honest, Lottie. I only made sure you got there safely. Then I went back inside and finished my burger.”

  I mulled over his words.

  “You should really take a cab, though, at that time of night. It’s safer.”

  I snorted. “You sound like my father. It’s a short walk.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Just saying.”

  “It’s a safe neighborhood.”

  He shifted a little closer. “Still, the thought of something happening to you.” He closed his eyes and a shudder went through him. “I don’t like it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised, wondering why his words caused a warmth to spread in my chest. He sounded as though he cared. For some reason, I liked thinking that he did.

  “Why were you waiting for me?”

  He pulled in his bottom lip, worrying it, then lifted his hand, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “You’ve looked exhausted the past few nights. More than usual. I wanted to ask . . .” He trailed off, clearing his throat.

  “Ask?” I prompted.

  “Ask if you would let me take you for coffee? Get something to eat with me?”

  “Oh,” I breathed out.

  I wanted to. I wanted to go with him anywhere he wanted to go, listen to him talk. Spend some time with him. Get to know him. Still, I hesitated.

  “It will be a public place. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Logan.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, impatiently pushing the strands off his forehead. It was a useless gesture since they fell right back into his eyes. He glanced away, then met my eyes, his gaze sad, voice pained. “You don’t want to be seen with me? Is that it? A street musician?”

  “No!” I insisted. “That isn’t it at all!”

  He stood, extending his hand. “Then come with me.”

  I didn’t want to ask him if he could afford it, if he made enough money today to eat out again. I decided I would simply grab the check when it came. I let him take my hand, and tug me from my seat. I had to lean back to see his face.

  “You’re really tall.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “I’m average.”

  He bent low, a smile ghosting his lips as he chuckled, his voice a low hum in my ear. “I would never call you average.”

  “I meant height-wise.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’ve always been in the top percentile for that statistic.”

  “I think you’re probably in the top percentile in many areas.”

  He grinned, tugging me beside him, keeping me close. His towering stature made me feel safe.

  “I guess you’ll find out, now won’t you, Lottie?”

  I could only nod.

  He led me across the street to the coffee shop where I assumed he had watched me the other night. He w
as obviously a regular, smiling familiarly at the waitress.

  “Hey, Macy.”

  “Hi, Logan. Coffee?”

  He glanced at me for confirmation, then nodded at her. “Two please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  We sat down, Logan setting his guitar case on one of the empty chairs. I looked around, curious. I had passed the place many times, but never gone in. It was a throwback to another time, when people congregated to share their day. Formica counters and tables, chairs with torn vinyl, and an aging linoleum floor made up the space. Despite its age, it was meticulous— counters polished, the floor spotless. There were some older men at the counter, drinking coffee, eating pie from cases that displayed the slices. Domed glass covers showed cakes piled high with frosting. The smell of coffee and the grease from the hot grill at the back permeated the air, making my stomach grumble.

  “Best cheeseburgers in the city,” Logan informed me, not even looking at the menu. “As long as you eat meat.” His lips twisted into a frown. “Are you one of those girls who only eat salads? Is that why you’re so thin?”

  “I eat meat. And I’m not thin,” I added, defensive.

  “You are. You’ve gotten thinner lately.”

  I crossed my arms. “Exactly how closely have you been watching me?”

  Macy appeared, setting down our steaming cups of coffee. “You eating or just coffee?”

  “Two specials, Macy. Extra cheese on both.”

  She walked away before I could speak.

  “Maybe I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Moot point then. Besides, I saw you have coffee a couple times. You always add cream.”

  “Logan . . .”

  “Lottie,” he teased.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  He took a long drink of coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. The steam from his cup swirled around his head, his long fingers wrapped all the way around the large mug.

  He set it down, leaning on his arms. “How closely have I been watching you?”

  I was almost afraid to hear the answer. “Yes.”

  He traced the handle of his mug a couple times. “Close.”

  “Why?”

  His reply was slow. “Because I think you need someone to watch out for you.” He lifted his soulful eyes, the light shimmering in his whiskey-colored orbs. “And you came to me, first.”