by Becky Monson
I’ll miss you, free coffee.
She’s still giving me an odd look.
“We broke up, so I don’t think it’s fair to have him pay for my drinks,” I say, not sure why I’m giving Denise all this information, but she’s not making this easy.
“You’re not on Nathan’s tab,” she says.
I scrunch my face. “Yes, I am. He put me on there a long time ago. Like two years ago.” It was right after we started dating, not long before Nathan stopped coming to the Lava Java to work.
“Yeah, he closed that out not long after he opened it,” Denise says. Then she points over to Logan’s regular spot. “You’re on Logan’s tab.”
“What?” I ask, her words not making any sense. “I’m on . . . Logan’s tab?”
Denise smiles brightly. “You are.”
“Does he know?” I ask, feeling suddenly horrified that Logan may have been paying for my coffee without even knowing.
She gives me an odd look. “Of course he knows,” she says. “He asked to put you on there.”
“He . . . he, what?”
“Here you go,” she says, grinning at me while she hands me the coffee another barista made while we were talking.
My free coffee—that Logan’s been paying for this whole time.
I grab it from her and stare at the cup like it’s a foreign thing in my hand. I don’t understand.
I walk over to the booth and slide into the seat across from Logan.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me, taking off his headphones and setting them to the side of his computer. The corners of his mouth are pulled slightly downward. “I see you picked the guy to go on the trip with.”
“Huh?” I say, still confused by the whole coffee thing.
“The guy for the trip? The . . . other Nathan Jones.”
“Yeah, he’s been picked,” I say. I hold out an open palm to him. “Hey, why—”
“Have you met him?” he cuts me off.
“Met who?”
“The guy you’re going on the trip with,” he says, looking at me like I have two heads.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ve met. Hey, Logan, have you been paying for my coffee?”
He glances over to the side and out the entrance of the coffee shop. “Yeah,” he says quietly—almost inaudibly.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“She said I’ve been on your tab for a while,” I say, gesturing over to the counter where Denise is no longer standing. “That was back when . . .” My eyes lose focus as I stare at the table in front of me. That was back when Logan couldn’t spare a word for me. Back when he could barely look at me.
I glance up to see Logan swiping a hand over his face, exhaling a long breath. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, his tone bordering on frustration.
“Yes, it is,” I say, not sure what any of this means, but it’s definitely a big deal.
“It’s just coffee,” he says.
“Two years’ worth of coffee,” I say. This whole time, I thought Nathan was footing the bill for my caffeine habit.
He shrugs.
“But . . . why?”
He sniffs while raising one shoulder briefly. “I probably shouldn’t have. It wasn’t really my place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Boundaries,” he says, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly up.
I scoff. “What are these stupid boundaries, Logan?” That freaking word is beginning to infuriate me.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re doing this trip,” he says.
I stare up at the ceiling. This again. “You know why I’m going,” I say.
“You never gave me a good answer.”
I hold my hands out, palms facing upward. “My boss wanted me to take a vacation, and the vacation presented itself.”
“There are a million other vacations you could be taking,” he says, his face taking on a very condescending look I don’t appreciate.
I stare at him for a second. “Yes, well, this is the vacation I’ll be taking. I can’t really go back now.”
“Sure you can. No one’s holding a gun to your head.”
I feel heat begin to move up my face. His condescending glare is really starting to piss me off.
I grunt, the feeling rumbling through my chest. “I don’t get you, Logan. You don’t even care.”
“I care,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” I say. “You never wanted anything to do with me when I was dating Nathan. You could barely be in the same room with us half the time. And now that we’re not together, you’re suddenly Mr. Chatty Pants?” Dang it, I should have used a better word than chatty pants. “And now I find out you’ve been paying for my coffee this entire time?”
He just sits there, staring at me.
“I don’t understand, Logan. Help me understand.”
His eyes move down at the table in front of us, not saying anything, his lips pulled into that same old flat line.
Actions are louder than words. But his actions and his words are like a big jumbled mess. My brain is spinning around, trying to put the pieces together, trying to understand.
“Let me ask you this,” I say after the silence between us becomes deafening. “If you liked me ‘fine’ or whatever this entire time—if you liked me enough to put me on your tab—then why did you tell Nathan to break up with me?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“The way he did it—the way he called everything off. It felt like he was repeating things you had said to him,” I say.
Logan’s looking at me like I’ve got more than one head again. “Are you crazy?” he asks.
“No,” I say, even though I do feel a little messed up in the head right now.
“I didn’t tell Nathan to break up with you,” he says, his nostrils flaring.
“Then what did you say? What did you tell him when he told you he was breaking up with me?” Nathan never told me that he said anything to Logan. But of course he did. They’re roommates, best friends, and business partners.
Logan sits there, staring at me. His lips turned downward, his nostrils still flaring, his stern posture telling me he isn’t going to answer my question.
I purse my lips. Why had I even come here? “Never mind,” I say as I edge my way out of the booth.
“Holly—”
“Take me off your tab,” I say, cutting him off, not wanting to hear what he has to say. It’s pointless anyway. I don’t understand Logan and I don’t think I ever will.
I walk out the door of the coffee shop and the hot, moist air instantly hits my face. I realize in my haste to leave, that I forgot my coffee. But I’m not going back for it. I may never go back there again.
My movements are swift as I go to cross the street so I can return to my office as quickly as possible. Just as I’m about to step onto the crosswalk on Church Street, a hand wraps around my arm and spins me the other way.
“I didn’t tell Nathan to break up with you,” Logan says, standing in front of me. His face now matches the tips of his ears—but more red than pink. His posture is rigid, except for the rapid lifting and lowering of his chest.
I wrench my arm out of his grasp. “It’s fine, Logan,” I say, briefly shutting my eyes. It was so dumb for me to come here, to bring up all the things I did.
Logan swallows. “I told him,” he says, his eyes bearing into mine, “that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.”
“Huh?” I say, feeling my breath hitch. I was not expecting that. “You wh . . . what?” I stammer.
He takes a step closer to me, invading my space. So close that I have to look up at him. So close I can feel his breath on me.
“When he told me he was breaking up with you, I told him he was an idiot,” he says in a lower voice, practically spitting out the words.
“But . . . why?” I ask, my voice timid. “You . . . you didn’t like me and Nathan together.”
He shakes his hea
d slowly. “Still,” he says, lowly, quietly. “It was his mistake.”
My hands, which are hanging by my sides, are clenching into fists; I can feel my nails digging into my palms as I try to make sense of what he’s saying.
“But you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you.”
“But you never acted like it.”
He lets out a breath. “Boundaries.”
“That word again,” I fume.
I huff out a breath, readying myself to turn back to the crosswalk and get back to my office.
He grabs my arm again and turns me back. “You don’t . . . I . . .”
“Don’t what?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls me toward him until we’re barely inches apart. He reaches a hand up to my face, cradling it, and when I don’t pull away—for reasons I can’t even understand myself—his other hand moves up to the other side of my face. All the while his eyes are intent on mine.
I’m—well, I’m frozen. I can’t move. This is the most he’s ever touched me. The most I’ve ever seen him touch anyone, actually.
“Lo—” I start to say, but before I can finish his name, his lips are on mine.
It’s soft at first and slow, and I’m about ready to push him away from me, but then he moves a hand from my face to the back of my neck and pulls me in closer. His mouth is now moving over mine with intensity and drive and passion. So much passion that I can’t control the reaction my body is having right now. My legs feel weak, my heart has gone off on a galloping pace. And to solidify that I’m no longer in control, my arms move up of their own accord and wrap around Logan’s waist.
I can’t think. It’s almost as if I don’t want to. I can’t think of the past or the future, I can only focus on this moment—this moment right now. My mouth is moving against his, returning the intensity, and I can’t stop. I don’t want to. And I moan—I freaking moan—which only makes Logan’s mouth move against mine with more intensity. His hand moves from the back of my neck to my back, and I can feel his fingers digging into my side as he pulls me close.
My brain, still not working properly, does conjure up one thought: I’ve never in my life been kissed like this. Not ever. I feel like I’m cherished, and desired . . . and wanted.
A car horn not far from us honks and someone yells something, and we pull away from each other. Our lips are swollen; our rapid breaths keep pace with one another. Logan takes a step back and I go to reach for him, but then drop my hand as my brain starts to take back over for my body and I’m able to focus on what transpired just now, and then all the things that transpired between Logan and me before this moment come rushing back.
I open my mouth to say something—anything. But before I can get a word out, Logan turns and walks away.
~*~
“Logan kissed me.”
This is the first thing I say to my friends when I arrive at Hester’s. I couldn’t even bring myself to take a seat before I said anything. I’m standing in front of our regular table, my hair wet and matted to my face, my clothes—notably my shirt—plastered to my body, since the sky decided to downpour torrential rain just as I was getting to Hester’s. There wasn’t even time to pull out an umbrella, it happened so fast. I’m pretty sure I look like a madwoman. In fact, by the expressions everyone is giving me, I’m confident of it.
“’Bout time,” Thomas is the first one to say something. “He’s always wanted you.”
Quinn, appearing quite concerned, motions for me to come sit by her.
“Wh-what are you talking about?” I ask Thomas as I take a seat. Quinn grabs a light cardigan from her bag and places it around my shoulders and I pull it around me, cocooning myself against the sudden cold I’m feeling with my wet clothes combined with the air conditioning in the restaurant.
“Uh, duh,” Thomas says, wobbling his head, very teenager-like. “Logan? He totally wants a piece of that,” he motions toward me. “Well, maybe not that,” he says, scrunching up his face at my wet dog appearance.
“Logan likes Holly? No,” Quinn says, shaking her head. But even as she says it, I can see her brain moving—like she’s calculating things. Her head shaking turns into a slow head bob. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Logan . . .” Bree says his name like she too is processing something.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” Alex says, and Thomas nods his head at him, unspoken bro-words between them.
“He . . . he hates me,” I say.
“Hate is kinda close to love, Hols,” Thomas says like he’s the foremost knowledgeable person on the subject. “There’s like a fine line or something. Isn’t there a quote? Alex, help me out here.” Alex shrugs in response, nothing to offer.
“No, it’s not. Hate is hate,” I say. I feel my bottom lip wobble and I will myself not to cry. I don’t like to cry. I don’t want to do it in public, or even by myself. Basically, crying sucks.
“Tell us what happened,” Quinn says.
And so I do. I tell them about the whole thing. The tab, the argument, the kissing.
“Whoa,” Bree says when I’ve finished. “He just kissed you—right there on Church Street?”
“Yes.”
“And you let him?” Quinn says, her face screwed up with confusion.
“I . . . did.” I’m still not even sure why I did. It was like the whole thing was out of my control, and I didn’t care—I couldn’t make myself care. I think I finally get how it feels to be in a moment. To be present. Although knowing that doesn’t mean I can find it again. And certainly not now, when I can’t keep my head from going back to that moment.
“So,” Thomas says crossing one leg over the other, placing his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, a serious expression on his face. “Are you guys, like, a thing now?”
“What?” I sputter. “No. There’s no thing. It was . . . I don’t . . . I . . .” I have no words.
After Logan walked away—after he kissed me—I robotically went back to work, not speaking to anyone. Not that I needed to; it was basically the end of the day anyway. I wrapped up everything for the day on autopilot and then walked here. Logan kissed me were the first words out of my mouth since leaving the scene on Church Street.
“You okay?” Quinn asks, rubbing large circles on my back.
“Yeah,” I shake my head. “I’m . . . it was . . .” I sigh.
“Wine?” she asks, half a smile on her lips.
“Please.”
Chapter 20
“Holly, what are you doing here?”
Crap. Busted.
I give Marie a sheepish grin. “I had a few things to finish up.” Also, I don’t want to leave my team with Tiffany or go on this trip. Please don’t make me do this. Pleeeeeease.
“I told you we’ve got it,” Marie says, standing at the front of my desk, her hand on her hip, her lips forming a straight line. She must have gotten wind that I was here because she rarely comes down here. Freaking Tiffany. I know it was her.
I lick my lips. “I know you do. It’s just that—”
“Don’t you have to pack? You have a trip to get ready for. And a wedding tonight?”
Oh, yes. A wedding. Tonight my dad will marry Miranda at what was to be my wedding venue, and they’re also using my photographer. They picked a different color scheme and flowers, and I’m pretty sure the music will be a lot different since getting the party started isn’t really my dad and Miranda’s jam. There will be lots of jazz and I’m sure some 70s and 80s hits. And Thomas will officially be my stepbrother.
As for the packing—that’s been done for a while. Now I just keep remembering things and unpacking and repacking so everything will fit. I’m usually pretty good at packing, but this time, I seem to be forgetting even the essentials. Like underwear. Thank goodness I remembered last night.
Is it any wonder I’m here? Who wants to think about all that? I wasn’t planning on coming in, but I just felt itchy, like something was unfinished. My team knows Tiffany w
ill be babysitting them. Well, that’s what Avery called it. She was pretty ticked that I had to renege on having her be in charge. I may have told her she was still in charge and to report to me if Tiffany pulled anything.
“Right,” I say to Marie. “I need to finish one little thing, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Wrong,” Marie says.
“Wrong?”
“There’s nothing left for you to do; it’s time for you to go. To get away from this place. To show me,” she points at me, “you can get away from this place.”
“I can totally get away from this place,” I say, sounding defensive. “I leave here every night.”
She tilts her head to the side, eyeing me disapprovingly. “You know what I mean,” she says in low tones.
“Right.” Placing my hands on my thighs, I look around my desk, wondering if I could do a quick re-organize before I leave, but a glance up at Marie tells me I better just grab my purse and go.
She wraps an arm around my shoulder as we walk out of my office—after she had to pry my hand off the handle of my door—and gives me a little squeeze.
“Promise me you’ll have fun,” she says.
I swallow. “Well, there are no guarantees of that,” I say. It’s not like I can control the fun, especially since I promised not to plan anything.
“Holly,” she squeezes a little tighter. “Having fun is a choice.”
“Right,” I say, disbelieving. I’ll add that to my list of things I need to figure out, right under learning to live in the moment.
After saying goodbye to Marie, I take the elevator down to the first floor and make my way to the exit, the clicking of my nude-colored high-heels echoing through the grand marble entrance as I go. I stop in the middle of the vast lobby, looking around. In the five years I’ve worked here, I haven’t taken much time to really see this building. I’ve been so focused on getting to my office. I’ve always thought it was pretty, but taking it all in now—the building is actually quite stunning. With tall ceilings, white marble floors, neutral colored furniture, and gold accents . . . it’s lovely.