We’re driving back now. He glances at me every so often, and neither of us feels the need to fill the silence with words. The bright day is giving way to evening as the sky changes colors from blue to pink, purple, yellow, and orange, blending in with the fall colors on the horizon until it looks like an impossible painting on a day made up of impossibles. It still feels surreal. I kissed him. I can’t believe I just up and kissed him.
I don’t know what got into me. He’d been so perfect the entire day, so sweet and funny and attentive. I’ve never had a guy be so into me before. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly. I can’t believe I kissed him first, and the way he kissed me back! If I were a cartoon character, my feet would be floating off the ground and there would be hearts jumping out of my eyes. I bite my lip to keep from smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
Then that old voice I know all too well starts chipping away at my joy.
Of course he had to kiss you back. What choice did he have?
Shut up.
This isn’t going to last. A guy like him? He can have anyone. Why would he want you?
Shut up, shut up.
As soon as he gets into your pants, he’ll drop you, and now he knows you’re easy too.
I don’t respond to the last accusation in my head. Experience tells me it’s right.
“Hey?”
He grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together and kissing the back.
“Everything okay?”
I smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
His eyes stay on me for a moment longer, look at the road, and then glance back at me.
“Stay with me, okay? I had a blast today. Whatever doubts you’re coming up with in your head right now? Get rid of them.”
How did he know? Am I that transparent?
I don’t respond, just nod and let the sound of the road under the truck tires lull me into acceptance. I can hear Mom’s voice in my head.
Whatever happens, happens. But nothing will ever flourish and grow if you don’t give it a chance. The seed may turn into a beautiful flower or it may just be a weed. And only you can decide which it is. Just remember, one person’s weed may be someone else’s flower. And the world needs both.
Chapter Fourteen
We drive back home. My home, that is, so we can get to the second part of our date. I’ve never spent this many hours on a date before. When we pull into my driveway, Skye looks back at me, a question in her eyes.
“Ready for part two of our date?”
“Part two?”
I smile. “You’ll see.”
This time, she stays in the truck while I walk around the bumper, her eyes tracking my every move. Until I open her door, that is. Her gaze drops, her cheeks blush, and her shyness returns. I help her out of the truck and take her hand until we get inside the house.
“May I have your coat?”
“Sure.”
I watch as her small hands lower the zipper, and my imagination is a dozen steps ahead and already picturing her naked. I’ve gotta get ahold of myself.
She gives me her coat and looks around, taking everything in, and I try to see my home through her eyes. The walls are painted a soft sand color with white wainscoting around the entire room. The furniture, dark chocolate brown sofas and tables, are decidedly masculine. The seventy-inch TV above the brick fireplace is the central focus of the room, but her eyes are immediately drawn to the dozens of framed pictures on the wall. A good portion of them are black and white pictures of my grandparents and other relatives long gone. I love old pictures and the history they hold. A moment frozen in time on a piece of paper. I love how something so fragile can capture life and hold so much history in it.
I kick off my sneakers and put them in the closet by the front door. I hate wearing shoes in the house. I hang both of our coats.
“Get comfortable. Be right back.”
When I return, she’s standing by the wall looking at the pictures, and her boots are off. Her socks make me laugh.
“Purple unicorn socks?”
She looks at her feet as if seeing them for the first time.
“Yeah, they’re River’s lucky socks. She made me wear them. She’s obsessed with unicorns and the color purple. You didn’t hear it from me, though. She’ll deny her love of all things unicorn if you ask her. It doesn’t exactly go with her tough girl image.”
I think about making a joke about getting lucky and her socks, but I pass.
“Her secret is safe with me.”
I stand at her shoulder and see the picture she’s looking at.
“Tell me about this one,” she asks.
It’s one of the bigger frames. I had the image restored and blown up.
It’s a picture of my brother and me on the back of the truck, parked in the very same spot it is now. Grandpa is holding a hose and is spraying us. The water is making rainbows in the air. Our skinny bodies are taller than our ages. Grandma is right next to him. We all have huge smiles on our faces. It’s a candid image. No one is posing. I have no idea who took this picture.
“This was summer. I was ten and Liam was eight. It had to be a Sunday. We washed that truck every Sunday, even in the rain. As long as the temperature was above sixty-five. Grandma’s rules.”
Skye looks around the room, pausing in front of a few other pictures, but she doesn’t ask any other questions about them.
“We have about an hour until the food is ready. Come on, let’s get dinner going.”
I take her hand and we walk to the kitchen. Unlike her apartment, I kept the original structure of Grandma’s house when I renovated it two years ago. The kitchen is spacious, with honey-colored granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a large island that doubles as a kitchen table. It opens into the dining room.
Music is playing softly in the background.
“What do you like to listen to?”
“I love classic rock. Aerosmith, Pink Floyd, Queen.”
“I do too. I always have music playing when I cook.”
“You like to cook?”
“Yes. And I can bake too.”
“You can cook and bake?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yes. And I made dinner for you.”
She makes me laugh.
“How did you learn?”
“We had a cook growing up. My brother and I spent most of our afternoons after school doing homework at the kitchen table and watching Mary cook and bake. She’d make us a fresh batch of cookies every day. I guess I watched her enough over the years and picked up a thing or two.”
What I don’t tell her is that Mary is the closest thing we had to a mother. And we stayed in that kitchen long after homework was done.
“That explains your cookie addiction.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t,” she says with a laugh.
“We have about an hour. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just water is fine.”
I get us both a glass of water.
“Tell me more about your family. What are they like?”
“Mom and Dad are so unlike any other parents I’ve ever met, especially Mom. If you think River has no filter, wait until you meet my mother.”
She takes a sip of her water.
“Our parents never judged or questioned us. My parents guided but never pushed. For starters, they never enforced any kind of punishments on us or forced us to do anything. Not even homework. If we decided that we didn’t want to do homework, then it was up to us to tell the teacher at school, and we quickly learned that not doing it at home meant losing recess and doing it at school, anyway.”
“They taught you responsibility by allowing you to be responsible for your choices.”
“Yes. And consequences. Our parents explained that for every action or lack thereof, for every choice we made, there would be consequences. They didn’t leave us to fend for our
selves or allow us to do anything that would put us in danger. But they gave us the freedom to make our own choices to the measure we could handle them and let us deal with the consequences of those choices.”
“So, you didn’t so much learn from their telling you, but from your own experiences.”
“Exactly. Nothing teaches a kid that eating half of a chocolate cake in one sitting is a bad idea like actually doing it and dealing with the stomachache that’s sure to follow. Let’s just say River and I never did that again.”
Her words radiate love, and it makes me want to kiss her and capture it with my lips.
“They were preparing us to be independent, to think for ourselves, and to blaze our own path. That’s Mom’s favorite thing to tell us, ‘There is only one person who can live your life: You. So you may as well do what makes you happy. Create your own path. Leave your mark in the world. Make it something you’re proud of.’”
“I like that.”
“I do too. The thing is, as much as I want to, there’s a part of me that’s terrified of taking that leap of faith.”
She stops abruptly, as if in confessing her fears, she has said too much.
“I can understand that.”
“You can?”
“Yes. Faith requires trust. And trust is not something that comes easily to everyone.”
“No, it doesn’t. Especially if that trust has been broken before.”
The word trust floats between us long after it was said, as if suspended in wait. Invisible, intangible, and yet heavy with fear and need.
The need to trust.
The fear of trusting.
Two sides of the same coin.
We don’t say anything for a while, and the first cords of a familiar melody start to play, “I Don't Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith.
I wonder if Grandpa is whispering in my ear again. The first time I heard this song, he played it to me and told me to make sure to never hold back because I don’t want to miss anything.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m leaning on the counter and watching as he makes us coffee. It’s not late, but it’s been a long day. I stifle a yawn.
“I’m sorry.”
He smiles as he turns to me and kisses me on the cheek. It’s such a sweet gesture, so filled with tenderness. My heart skips a beat.
“Nothing to be sorry for. It’s been a long day. But I enjoyed every minute of it.”
His hand is on my hair again. He twirls a lock on his fingers and then lets it drop. He’s done it a few times tonight.
“Take a seat.”
He guides me back to the now cleared kitchen island where we had dinner less than an hour ago.
He gestures for me to wait and gets us both coffee. Then goes back to the fridge and brings out a cake. He places it in front of me. A homemade cake, twenty-one colorful candles on top of it. A rainbow of colors against the dark chocolate ganache.
He lights the candles, but it’s my heart that goes up in flames.
“Happy birthday, Skye.”
Words I’m not capable of saying try to spill out of my eyes. I blink to stop the rogue tears. Of all the things he could have said or done, this simple gesture, a birthday cake he’s clearly baked himself is what touches me the deepest. I throw myself into his arms. He hugs me back. A muffled Thank you leaves my lips as he squeezes me harder and kisses the top of my head.
This moment, with his arms tight around me—it feels right. Maybe we can give trust a chance because I just realized I don’t want to miss a thing either.
I pull back just enough to look at him, and like before, I go on my tiptoes and kiss him. It starts as a gentle kiss, a pass of lips, a chaste taste. My lips part for him, and he dips in once, twice, and then pulls back.
He looks over my shoulder.
“As much as I hate stopping myself right now, you’d better make that wish before the cake burns the house down.”
We burst out laughing.
I look at him and back at my twenty-one candles. I make a wish and blow them out. Twenty-one little spirals of smoke rise up and dissipate, each one of them a message to the universe, a reminder to make my wish come true.
Logan plucks the candles off the cake and grabs a single plate and two forks. He cuts a huge slice.
“Vanilla cake with chocolate ganache is my favorite. How did you know?”
He shrugs.
“I didn’t. It’s my favorite too.”
I moan at the first bite. He stills, eyes on my lips. I freeze too. Logan leans in and licks the corner of my mouth. Then he smiles.
“You had a little bit of chocolate right there.”
I have the urge to cover my entire body in ganache.
His smile widens and turns into a knowing smirk. And I don’t know if I said that out loud or if he just read my mind. I’m pretty sure my entire body is flushed red right now. He laughs and stands up.
“Be right back.”
When he returns, he’s holding a gift bag and pushes it toward me.
“Got you something.”
The surprise must be evident on my face.
“Don’t look so surprised. You didn’t think I’d forget it’s your birthday, right?”
“No, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting anything else. You didn’t have to do this—all of this.”
I gesture at the space around us.
“I know, but I wanted to.”
A small smile plays on his lips. He watches my every move.
“Go on, open it.”
Curiosity takes over me, and I reach for the plain brown paper bag and look inside. Two packages wrapped in tissue paper. I reach for the smaller one and unfold the paper, revealing a narrow powder-blue box. I find a beautiful silver bracelet inside with three charms dangling from it—a book, the number twenty-one, and . . . is that a cop car?
“This is beautiful, Logan. I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I love it.”
“I figured the book for your love of reading and the number for your birthday, and the cruiser for the day we met.”
He looks at me and there’s anticipation in his eyes.
“This is so thoughtful. I really do love it.”
He takes the bracelet from me, opens it, and looks at me, waiting. I give him my left wrist. His fingers brush my skin, sending shivers up and down my spine. My nipples get hard and send a little thank you to whoever invented padded bras, glad that Logan can’t see how his simple touch affects me.
I turn my arm so I can see the pendants, and the silver shines under the kitchen lights.
“There’s one more,” he reminds me.
I can’t imagine anything that would top the bracelet. When I reach inside the bag one more time and remove the next wrapped gift, I can tell it's a book and get that old feeling of anticipation every time a new book comes my way. When I remove the tissue paper, words escape me.
He smiles at my reaction. I look at him and then back at the book and back at him again. And repeat this another half-dozen times. Still fighting to find my speech, all I can say is, “How?”
He shrugs.
“I don’t understand. This book is not out until next week. How did you get it?”
I look at the book again and open the cover. A fangirl squeal leaves my mouth and Logan laughs out loud. My face heats with embarrassment.
“Does it mean you like it?”
“I love it, but I don’t understand. How do you even know about this book, and how did you get it?”
“I ran into River at Pat’s on Monday and asked her for ideas for a birthday gift. She said I could never go wrong with a book. I asked her what kind of book and she gave me names of your favorite authors but said you most likely had read all of their books already. Except for this one, because it wasn’t out yet.”
“River never said anything about it.”
“I asked her not to.”
“But, how did you actually get it?”
“When I got home, I looked up the author
and found her webpage.”
I look at the paperback in my hands, the last book in my favorite series. I’ve been waiting for this book to be released for months, and not only do I have a hard copy in my hands, but it's also signed to me.
“I can't believe you did this. You got this book for me?”
The words come out like a question even though I intended them as a statement.
“Yes, for you. I sent her an email and explained that I met this amazing girl and our first date was on her birthday and I wanted to do something special for her. And that you loved her books.”
“And she sent it to you?”
“Yes, she said she had a few paperbacks on hand and that she’d be glad to mail me a signed copy.”
“Wow, I can’t believe it. This is . . . I have no words. Thank you, Logan.”
I step around the counter and wrap my arms around his neck and pull him into a hug. His hands go around me and he tugs me between his legs.
I can feel him breathing into my hair, sending a dance of shivers on my skin. I kiss him on the cheek and pull away. His eyes linger on my lips for a few seconds before he dips his head and his mouth finds mine.
He savors me. There’s no other word to describe the way Logan’s lips move over mine.
Unhurried.
Knowing.
Skilled.
Each pass of his lips, each nibble, each lick of his tongue on mine is a contained invitation for more. We kiss for a long time, his hands never straying into second-base territory.
He walks me home. His legs are much longer than mine, but he adjusts his pace and I don’t have to lengthen my stride to keep up. Something in me trusts him. I feel safe. And it has nothing to do with his being a cop. It’s him. The way he looks at me, the way he smiles, the way his eyes light up when I blush. The thought makes be blush again. I’m glad it's dark out, and save for the few lamp posts here and there, there isn’t enough light for him to see my blushing face.
The sides of our bodies touch, his arm around me spreading heat over my back and other places he's not touching. His body is like a warm blanket at my side. I want to wrap myself in him.
I look up, taking in his beautiful profile, the strong, chiseled jaw darkened by the shadow of whiskers, the mouth I’ve wanted on mine since the first time I saw him.
Because of Logan Page 8
