Meeting His Match

by Tia Souders

  “Interesting quote for you to have up there,” he said, not wanting to ignore it.

  “I have a lot of quotes.”

  It was true. But it didn’t make this one any less significant. Still, maybe he should back off. So, he turned to her bookshelf instead. “Sophisticated choice in literature, I see.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” she snapped.

  “Nothing. I just didn’t take you for a Harry Potter fan.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with—”

  “And Jane Eyre . . . That’s interesting . . .”

  She growled. “What’s so interesting about it?”

  Logan shrugged, earning him a scowl. When he took a step closer, his pulse raced with anticipation.

  “Say it,” she said, poking him in the chest, but she had all the strength of a fly. “You’re obviously making some kind of judgment. I can see it written all over your face.”

  Logan shrugged. “It’s a love story.”

  “Jane Austen is a classic.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact it’s most definitely a love story.”

  She scoffed. “Please, save whatever psychoanalysis is running through your head. It’s literature. Nothing more.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do,” she said, her voice tight.

  He chuckled as she turned and left the room, joining her as his laughter bounced off the walls. If goading her weren’t so easy, it might not be as much fun.

  When they stepped outside, he leaned against the wall, waiting as she locked up. Just as she pocketed her keys, a man approached.

  With his head bowed and shoulders slumped, the man stopped at the sight of them. “Marti?” he said, more a greeting than a question.

  Marti froze, causing Logan to take a second look at the stranger. His sharp gaze trailed over him. Dawning struck at the same time Marti acknowledged him. Logan could see the subtle similarities. They were there in her smile and her heart-shaped face.

  “Dad,” she answered, stiffly.

  The man stepped forward and reached for her, arms out, almost hesitantly, before he withdrew again and shoved his hands in his pockets. His demeanor spoke volumes. The remorse, the heartache—his eyes said it all.

  “Dad, right now isn’t really a good time. We were just heading out.”

  Her father’s gaze flicked to Logan, and it dawned on him—fake relationship or not—he was facing his girlfriend’s father for the first time.

  “Hi, sir.” Logan stepped forward and offered him his free hand. “I’m Logan Love.”

  He shook Logan’s hand, eyeing him closely, but not unkindly. “I’m Jerry McBride, Marti’s father.” Then he turned to Marti before Logan could say anything else. “Well, I guess that answers my question about the seating chart. I read your column, but I wasn’t sure what to believe.”

  “You read my column?” Marti didn’t bother hiding her disbelief.

  Her father cleared his throat and shrugged. “Been reading it for quite some time, actually. I’m glad to see you finally found someone.”

  “We’re kind of in a hurry.”

  “Care for some dinner? I’d love the chance to sit and chat. With both of you,” he added, glancing between them. “My treat.”

  “We already have reservations,” Marti hedged.

  “Please, I’d really like the chance to talk.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Marti, I’m sure there’s room for three.” Logan turned to her, urging her to agree. It wasn’t his place. He had no right to insert himself between them when it was so clear she wanted nothing to do with the man in front of them. But he couldn’t help himself. Because the opportunity to see her a little clearer, to understand her a little better was standing right in front of him, and it was too good to resist.

  People often said in order to move forward with your life, you had to put the past behind you. But Logan wasn’t sure he agreed. Not when the past lived inside you. The past made you who you are. Carrying it with you wasn’t a choice. Facing it, acknowledging it, and coming to terms with it was the key.

  Something told him Marti had never fully dealt with her feelings of abandonment. Instead, they lived deep inside her, untouched, hidden away in the darkest corners. But if forcing her hand at facing her past pushed her closer to lowering her walls, he was all for it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MARTI

  CANDLES FLICKERED, dappling Marti, Logan, and her father in soft light. Flowers decorated the tables and the soft sound of Sinatra crooned in the background.

  The restaurant was romantic. Far too romantic for a party of three—especially when one of those three was her father.

  She sat across from them, stiff-lipped and ready for a fight. Next to her, Logan reached under the table and squeezed her knee in a gesture of comfort, but it only served to push the pulse of anger into her temples where it beat like a drum. If he had her comfort in mind, he never would have agreed to this dinner.

  She tried to shove her anger back, reminding herself to get through the next hour, and then she could leave. But their drinks arrived, and her father placed an order for appetizers, talking the entire time, which only grated on her nerves. At this rate, it’d be a miracle if she made it to the entrée.

  “Cindy would love this place,” he said. “Every Friday night we go to dinner, always somewhere new or someplace we haven’t been in a while.”

  Marti tried her best to muster a smile and failed.

  Logan, however, smiled ear-to-ear as they chatted like she wasn’t even there. “Cindy is your—”

  “Fiancé,” Marti finished for him. She took a long pull on her dry martini, letting the alcohol burn its way down her throat and into her gullet.

  Her father’s smile wobbled, but he quickly recovered. “We’re trying to convince Marti to be in the wedding, but she’s so busy, it’s hard to pin her down. I assume you’ll be joining her?”

  Marti gritted her teeth. Any second she’d pop a molar. It was all she could do not to scream.

  “Yes, I will be her date.” Logan smiled, but it dropped when he turned and took in whatever miserable expression he found plastered all over her face.

  “That’s wonderful. We’d be honored to have you there.”

  Marti focused on her drink, trying her best to tune them out while her father filled Logan in on her childhood like he was talking to his future son-in-law rather than her fake boyfriend

  Just pretend you’re somewhere else. Think of the beach on a hot summer day. Cold cocktails. Snowflakes. Melting ice cream cones. Imagine living on an island where men don’t exist. Now that’s the dream.

  “. . . She always wore her hair in pigtails. Always. And she was missing her two front teeth for a long time, until about fourth grade, so we have all these pictures of her, smiling for the camera with no front teeth. And she went through a huge boy band phase.” Her father laughed.

  “Really?” Logan’s eyes twinkled.

  “It was bad. I took her to her first concert—”

  “Dad, what are you doing?” She couldn’t do it. She didn’t have the strength to sit there and pretend she wasn’t completely furious with the situation at hand.

  He smiled. “I was just going to tell him about that time we went to see N’Sync.” He glanced at Logan with a grin, then back to her again. “And then I have to tell him about the time we took you out to that farm in Pennsylvania and you rode the horse and fell off. For years, she begged us to get her a horse. Of course, living in the city, it was impossible. So, we decided to try it out, see if she even liked it and then we’d think about leasing one.”

  “You can lease a horse?” Logan took a sip of his drink, fully immersed in her father’s stories, suddenly fascinated in equine rental.

  Her father nodded. “So we got there, and she hopped on like she’d been riding her whole life, like—”

  “Enough!” Marti slammed her fist on the table, rattling the glasses. She sucked in a breath.
The emotion building inside her was a raging storm, waiting to break.

  Her father’s eyes shifted to her, wide in his face. Beside her, Logan cleared his throat, a subtle reminder they were in public, but it did little to diminish her anger.

  “I don’t want to hear about Cindy or the restaurants you go to. Nor do I want to take a walk down memory lane and talk about my childhood and what I was like.”

  “Marti—” Her father started, then he paused, swallowing, his throat bobbing with emotion. But she wouldn’t feel sorry for him. She refused to. What comes around goes around, and for years, he disregarded her. “I was a wreck,” she bit out.

  His mouth pinched, speechless. Finally.

  “For a really long time I blamed myself. I thought it was my fault you left, that I was to blame. How could I not be? Because Mom was perfect, beautiful and smart. So it had to be me, right?” She paused, hating the way her voice had turned thick, cursing away the tears stinging the back of her eyes, mortified by her outburst.

  But these words . . . she had held onto them for too long.

  “Finally, when it became too much, Mom told me the whole truth, that your coworker, Francesca,” her voice cracked over the name, “could offer you more. That you left us for her. Mom held off telling me because she was trying to protect you. She didn’t want me resenting you. But her protection wasn’t necessary because you made me resent you all on your own. You cut me off. For almost three years.” When her voice wobbled, she shielded her face with her hand, not wanting anyone to see the tears in her eyes.

  “I know I screwed up, but I’m trying to make it better.” Her father reached a hand across the table before he thought better of it.

  Marti barked out a laugh, unable to hide her bitterness. “And then when I was eighteen, you wanted to pretend like nothing happened. Talk about a little late. I wonder why I didn’t reciprocate your desire for a reunion? And even then, after disappearing, you barely made an effort.”

  “I was trying to give you space. I knew you were angry with me, and I knew it would take some time for you to forgive me. I didn’t want you to feel like I was rushing you.”

  Marti stared at the ground by their table—anywhere but at him. “If you really cared, you never would have left in the first place. You wouldn’t have run off with another woman. You would have fought for me. For us. Our family. Or, at the very least, you should have made room for me in your new life from the start, Dad. Not years later.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but . . .” His voice cracked. “I made mistakes. I thought I was helping your mother by staying away. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness, and I knew that. It hurt her to be near me, and so I kept my distance.” Tears slid from his eyes, down his cheeks. His gaze begged, pleaded with her to forgive him.

  It should make her heart ache, his tears. But it didn’t. It only made the force of her anger stronger. He didn’t get to be the one that hurt. He brought this on himself.

  After it was clear she wasn’t responding, he continued, “I let shame get in the way. I didn’t know how to close the distance between us. I shouldered the guilt of everything for years, and I let that push us further apart.”

  He went silent when the waitress appeared with their appetizers and placed it in front of them, along with three plates. “Um, should I come back to take your orders?” she asked, oblivious.

  Marti rolled her eyes. Perceptive.

  When Logan told her they needed a moment, Marti felt relief. At least he knew when to keep his mouth closed and when to open it.

  The waitress scurried off with a fading smile, and Marti shrank back in her seat, suddenly exhausted. Years of anger and pain lodged in her throat as she looked over at her father, feeling defeated and tired from the bitterness she’d carried with her every single day like an anchor around her waist, pulling her down.

  “Put me down for a plus-one at your wedding with Logan as my date. I’m making an appearance because I feel obligated to, but nothing more. Not as a bridesmaid or anything else.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “Enjoy your shrimp.”

  Then she turned to Logan. “Walk me home?”

  THE COOL AIR NIPPED at her heels as her clipped stride ate the sidewalk.

  She bumped into a kid with spiky blue hair who cursed. Stumbling, she muttered an apology, blinking through the fog of emotion.

  “Marti, wait. I’m sorry I—”

  “What were you thinking?” She whirled around to face Logan.

  “I . . . I guess, I just—”

  “I told you about my past, confided in you about him leaving, about how I didn’t want to be in the wedding. You knew our relationship was strained. But he shows up with his charming smile and sad eyes, and you immediately agree to dinner? Then you sit there with him, reminiscing like you’re long-lost friends! How dare you.” She bit her lip and her limbs quaked like an addict, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Any minute, she’d spontaneously combust and either her tears or the embers of her anger would rain down on all of them.

  The shallow sound of his breath pierced the quiet between them, and she wanted to hit him, to reach out and hurt him, because even though they weren’t really together, she thought he knew her better than that. She thought he understood at least a little of how she felt.

  He reached out, but she sidestepped him. “I’m sorry, but I just wanted to know a little more about the woman I’ve been spending time with. I thought he might give me some insight into who you are and . . .” He trailed off, averting his gaze.

  Marti took a step forward, hands fisted at her side. She placed them against his chest and shoved while the blood pounded in her ears. “Go ahead. Say it.”

  Logan’s eyes locked on hers, his mouth a tight line.

  When he said nothing, she said it for him. “You hoped it might, what? Give you some insight into why I’m so closed off? Why I don’t trust men?” She sucked in the cold, night air, her voice rising with each word. “Or perhaps you thought he’d tell you why I have so much emotional baggage. Why I’d rather do just about anything than fall in love. Well, hello, genius.” She flung her arms out and turned in a circle, feeling half crazed. "Maybe it is because my youth never exactly gave me the warm fuzzies in regard to men and relationships.”

  Logan reached out and grabbed her arm, but she yanked it away. Several people stared but most pushed past, used to seeing much worse. “Marti, please.”

  She shook her head, tears clogging her throat while she stared at the ground, watching her feet blur. She was unraveling, she could feel it, yet she couldn’t stop it, so the next time when he reached out and grabbed her arm, she let him.

  “Maybe I was desperate,” he said.

  She glanced up at the sharp sound of his voice, her cheeks damp, beckoning him to continue, to say something to ease the pain tugging at this place inside her chest.

  “Maybe I was desperate to find a way to get you to open up. And, yeah, this was the wrong way. I can see that now. I was selfish and foolish for insisting he should come along. But when he showed up, asking you to give him a chance, to go to dinner, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn more about you. I couldn’t turn down a chance at a glimpse of what made you who you are.”

  He let go of her arm and she felt the loss like a hole in her heart, knowing it was wrong because she should feel nothing.

  He paced in front of her, running his hands through his thick hair. “You want the truth, McBride?”

  “Don’t,” she warned.

  The sound of her voice made him pause, and he stared her down before he dipped his head closer and whispered, “The truth is, right or wrong, you’ve buried hooks in my heart. And here I am, still trying to punch holes in the walls around yours.”

  Marti swallowed. Her pulse thrummed. “Logan, what are we doing?” Her shoulders slumped. Desperation clung to her skin like smoke as she glanced around them as if someone passing by might have the answers. “In a few weeks, this will be over. Hidden Heartbeat will have e
nough clout to go national. You already said so yourself. My father’s wedding will be over, and we’ll go back to being just two people in a city full of millions. Why do this? No good will come of it.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.” Logan’s eyes darkened under the lamplight. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared down at her, the silence stretching between them.

  “You’re wrong.” She broke free from his grip and took a step back, all of Blue’s warnings forgotten. “I don’t know any other way. You’re fooling yourself to think this could ever be real. We’ve played this whole thing out so well even you’ve started to believe it.”

  She turned and started walking. She needed to get away from him—from this.

  “You believe it too. I know you do,” he called out.

  She paused and glanced back over her shoulder to where he stood, waiting, his silhouette a shadow in the streetlights.

  Slowly, he reached out and gripped her waist, his touch electric, searing straight through the wool of her coat. The feel of his hot breath tickled her neck. She shivered as the subtle scent of him—dry leaves, cedar, leather, and man—made her head spin.

  He pulled her back into the warmth of his chest and leaned over her shoulder, whispering into the shell of her ear, “This isn’t over until I say it is, and I won’t let you run away.”

  Her throat turned to dust. “Who said I’m running?”

  With a growl, he swiveled her around to face him. His expression said it all—that he saw right through her. He knew Marti better than anyone else—maybe even herself—and he meant what he said. He wouldn’t let her run away, wouldn’t let her hide from her feelings—from this, them.

  His eyes flickered to her mouth, and her stomach plunged to the ground. She knew what he was asking without saying it. For a chance. For a way in. To “prove it,” as she had challenged him that long-ago day in the pizza parlor.

  Marti’s lips parted, no longer taking instructions from her brain. She was tired of resisting, and in the seconds before his mouth crashed over hers, he whispered, “I’ll make you fall.”