by Heidi Rice
“We got pizzas, loaded,” Logan said. “We saved you a couple of slices, you want me to nuke ’em for you?” he added, getting ready to get up from the couch.
“I’ve got it.” She waved him back down. “I’ve got some stuff to sort out.” She could organize the release forms for the Vanity Fair article on her tablet and eat in the kitchen. And thus contain the urge to blurt out her worries to Logan.
This wasn’t his decision, if there was even a decision to make. It was hers. She didn’t lean on other people. Didn’t need them. She was an island. That was the way she liked it.
She escaped into the kitchen, but as soon as she’d located the saved pizza slices and popped them in the microwave, Logan appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” she snapped. “I can nuke a few pizza slices on my own.”
“I know,” he said, walking into the room.
“And you’ve got the big game to watch.”
“It’s just an exhibition match, not that big a game.”
Right, because she knew sod all about ice hockey.
The microwave pinged. She grabbed the steaming slice without thinking and yelped as hot cheese burnt her hand.
Logan was by her side in an instant, with a cold towel to press on the burn. “What was that you were saying about being able to nuke pizza slices on your own?” he said, the humor in his voice gruff and easy.
She tugged her hand free. “Stop it!”
He stared at her—that patient, pensive look unnerving her more. The hint of humor was gone.
“Stop crowding me,” she said, even though he wasn’t really. “I can’t stand it.”
“Then stop pretending nothing’s wrong. I can see something’s bothering you.”
She heard the snap in his voice, and realized she wasn’t the only frustrated one.
“I told you, I have a headache.” Picking up the now cooling pizza she shoved it onto a plate then picked up her tote and slung it over her shoulder. The tote that felt as if it weighed a hundred tons—because so much guilt and confusion was stuffed into the slim cardboard box that sat like a bolder inside it. “I’m going to bed.”
My own bed, in my own room.
The room she should have stayed in all along. She’d be able to find the separation she needed right now if she had never moved into Logan’s room. Never gotten so wound up in a life that wasn’t hers. A life she shouldn’t want.
He stared at her, the searching expression one that made the pulsing emotion choke off her air supply.
She was being a bitch. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She didn’t want to hurt him. But how could she not, when she could never be the woman he needed?
She left him standing in the kitchen and stomped up the stairs with her plate of leftover pizza and her ten-ton bag. Arriving in the room she hadn’t slept in in over three weeks, she dumped the uneaten pizza on the dresser and lay down on the bed.
The sting of tears came without warning. She shoved her fist into her mouth to stop them falling and curled onto the pillow. But she doubted she’d be able to sleep. Because the rudderless ship in her stomach had turned into the Titanic and it was heading straight for an iceberg.
*
“What’s up with Charlie? It her time of the month?” Lyle asked from his seat on the opposite couch as Logan walked back into the room.
“Shut up, Lyle,” he said but without heat as he sat back on the couch.
The game had finished and the reporter was going through the play-by-play stats. The Wild had lost. But he didn’t give a damn.
He’d wanted to follow her up, wanted to be sure she was okay. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. It wasn’t like her to snap, or scold. He’d seen the anxiety in her eyes. The flash of panic.
He’d been feeling pretty anxious himself in the last few days, the last week. The project was drawing to a close. She hadn’t mentioned moving on, and he hadn’t brought it up, but he knew—had known for a while—that he didn’t want her to leave.
They were good together. And not just in bed. She’d brought light and warmth and laughter into his life in a few short weeks. This place would be cold and dark and lonely again when she was gone—with him and Lyle rattling around the rooms. The house had felt like a home again for the first time in twenty-three years. Like the home it had been before his mom passed.
It sounded sentimental and kind of cheesy but it was the truth.
He couldn’t let her leave without telling her he wanted her to stay. He knew that, but he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet without freaking her out. And he was running out of time.
And now this. Whatever the heck this was.
His cell phone buzzed and he picked it up off the coffee table.
He saw Betty on the call signal—the station’s dispatcher. And took the call. Hoping that it wasn’t going to be an emergency. He didn’t want to leave the house tonight. Not with Charlotte so out of sorts upstairs.
“Hey, Betty, it’s Logan.”
“Logan, oh hi, I thought the phone would probably go to voice mail. You not watching the match?”
“It just finished. The Wild lost.” He frowned. So it obviously wasn’t an emergency, or Betty would have given him the info straight off. And why did she sound so sheepish. “Is there a problem?” he asked, wanting her to get to the point.
“Now don’t get all huffy, Logan. I know you don’t like me spreading rumors, but I heard something from Carol Bingley in the pharmacy and I thought I should tell you, because…” She paused.
Goddamn. Did she think he was one of the old girls she gossiped with over eggnog and snickerdoodles at Nell’s Cut and Curl? “Spit it out, Betty,” he said.
“Carol said that pretty young photographer bought a pregnancy test kit this afternoon,” Betty blurted out. “And I thought you should know about it. Just in case you didn’t.”
His heart stopped; it literally stopped beating, then thundered so hard against his ribs he felt like the guy in that old sci-fi movie who had an alien leap right out of his chest.
Holy shit. No wonder Charlie had looked so anxious. And panicked. She thought she might be pregnant? Had she taken the test already? Why hadn’t she said anything to him?
“Logan, are you still there?” Betty’s voice came down the line, curious and obviously angling for a good story to tell the Golden Girls Gossip Club.
“I already knew about it, Betty,” he lied. “But you tell Carol I’ll be having words with her next time I’m in Marietta Pharmacy. People’s private business is their private business—she shouldn’t be spreading that stuff all around town. It isn’t ethical.”
“Why that’s ridiculous, Logan. No need to get all uppity about it with Carol,” Betty said, getting uppity. “She only mentioned it to me in passing.”
He’d just bet she had. Carol was worse than Betty, between the two of them they could weasel secrets out of Jason Bourne. But he didn’t have time to explain the importance of tact and diplomacy to a woman past sixty.
“And you’re the only one I’ve told,” Betty added, for once sounding a tiny bit circumspect.
He doubted that, but he said: “Then you need to keep it that way. Charlotte Foster is doing this town a huge favor and I don’t want her private business…” their private business “…becoming the subject of tittle-tattle all over town. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Logan,” Betty said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Yeah, you would. He hung up the phone.
“What’s gonna become the subject of tittle-tattle?” Lyle asked, wandering back into the room with a slice of cold pizza.
“Nothing.” Logan got up and marched past his brother.
He had to talk to Charlotte. Had to find out if she’d taken the test.
That was all he could focus on right now. That and the fact that deep down, past the anxiety and the concern and the frustration was a warm spot in the pit of his belly.
A strange inexplicable warmth
that was telling him—against all notions of sense and sanity—that this development didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.
*
“Charlotte? You awake in there?”
Charlie rolled over at the soft tap on the door. She could pretend to be asleep—the lump of anxiety in her stomach still felt like the Titanic sinking to the bottom of the ocean. But before she could make up her mind whether to answer Logan’s request or not, the door opened.
She scrubbed her eyes, to make sure there was no evidence of the foolish tears, and sat up. “I was just falling asleep,” she lied.
“In your clothes?” he said.
Bollocks.
Not waiting for more of an invitation, he walked across the room.
The mattress dipped as he sat down beside her and placed a hand on her thigh. The warmth seeped through her clothing and she felt the Titanic-sized lump of anxiety rise out of the churning ocean in her stomach and bob into her throat.
She wanted to lean into his arms, to let him hold her, but she couldn’t. She had to be independent, self-contained. She didn’t want to be weak and needy. It made her feel like that little girl who had once grabbed her father’s trouser leg and begged him to stay home only to be shaken off as if she were an annoying puppy and told by the nanny. “Stop creating a scene, Charlotte. Your father has important business; he can’t stay home to look after you.”
“We need to talk,” he said.
“What about?” she said, her voice little more than a whisper—as the well of things she couldn’t talk about threatened to gag her.
“First off, I’ve got to give you some advice,” he said, the crinkle of sympathy round his eyes making the tears sting again. “Next time you need to buy something private, don’t go into Marietta Pharmacy. Carol Bingley, the manager, is a lady who couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.”
Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.
The choking sensation in her throat became unbearable. And the dumb, stupid tears leaked out. “You know about the pregnancy test?”
He nodded, then without asking her permission, he folded her shaking body into his arms.
He held her tight as the tears she didn’t want to shed ran down her cheeks, and the choking sobs she’d been keeping in for what felt like years welled up in her chest and spilled out.
She clung on to his solid strength as the storm surged. The smell of leather, and horses, and laundry soap and Logan finally settling her, until the choking sobs had turned to whimpering hiccoughs.
She bit into her lip to stop them, his murmured assurances as he stroked her hair both comforting and mortifying.
Finally, finally, she felt strong enough to pull out of his arms. She scrubbed the salty residue off her cheeks. Now she knew why other women carried tissues around with them.
“Have you taken the test yet?” he asked, firm and straightforward.
She shook her head. “The instructions say you should do it first thing in the morning, to get the most accurate result. I don’t want to bugger it up.” Like she’d buggered up so much else.
She could see all the other questions lurking in his eyes. Why hadn’t she told him? How long had she suspected she might be pregnant? What did she plan to do if she was? Why had she just had a crying fit in his arms worthy of The Madwoman of Chaillot?
All questions she did not have coherent answers to anymore. But instead of asking them, he cupped her chin, let his thumb drift over the puffy skin under her eyes and said. “Okay.”
Just like that. As if he had her back, regardless of what she did, or didn’t do.
She leant into his touch, wanting to take the comfort he offered. Wanting so much to feel secure. To feel loved. If just for a little while.
She sniffed, imagining she must look a total mess. “Sorry I behaved like such a prize bitch downstairs. I’ve been a bit stressed,” she said.
His lips quirked in that lazy seductive smile she adored. “Understandable,” he murmured.
His hand dropped to her shoulder, and his thumb caressed her collarbone.
The ripple of awareness, of arousal, felt empowering. Simple and uncomplicated, this was a need for him she understood.
“I don’t suppose…” She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’d consider making love to me?” she asked, hating the plea in her voice and the blood rushing to her already sore cheeks.
She needed this to take the pressure off. They both did.
“The headache’s gone?” he asked, the husky tone of voice telling her all she needed to know. He had this.
She smiled. “I guess it must be.”
Without saying more, he drew her to him and pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was tender, seeking, requesting permission instead of demanding it.
She sucked on his tongue, embracing the wave of hunger that swept through her. Desperate not to feel the emotion.
He undressed her, slowly, patiently. Then undressed himself. Joining her on the bed, he teased and tortured her yearning flesh—knowing just how to touch her, to kiss her, to drive her effortlessly to a peak. While she was still floating on the waves of afterglow, she heard the rustle of clothing, the rip of foil, and then he eased inside her.
She tightened around him, another climax rolling over her as if the first one had never ended.
At last they lay in the darkened room, her back wedged against his chest, his arm tight around her midriff, holding her securely. As if he’d never let her go.
He found the quilt and yanked it up to cover them both.
Her eyelids felt unbearably heavy as she watched the fat flakes of fresh snow falling outside the window.
The exhaustion did nothing to halt the renewed wobble in her stomach as he murmured against her hair. “Go to sleep, Charlotte. I’ve got you.”
This wasn’t real, not really. She knew that. It was just a beautiful dream.
Logan Tate had sworn to serve and protect, not just his community as a Deputy Sheriff, and his little brother Lyle during the unhappy years after his mother’s death, but also Harry Monroe’s legacy and pretty much everyone who had ever come into his life—including her. Because that was the kind of guy he was.
He took responsibility. He did the right thing. He always had your back if you needed him to.
And that’s why she hadn’t wanted to tell him about the pregnancy test. It seemed so clear now. Because if it said she was having his child, he would convince himself he loved her—would never acknowledge how fickle, how flighty, how undeserving she was of his care and protection.
Tomorrow she would have to deal with that harsh reality, for the both of them.
Her heart stuttered and stirred as his hand stroked her thigh in an absent, possessive caress and his breathing evened out into deep rhythmic sleep.
She snuggled into him and shut out the depressing thoughts.
Tomorrow would be here soon enough. Tonight she was too tired to do anything but relish the feel of his arms around her and let her mind float on all those impossible dreams.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? The guys can wait. I don’t want you to have to do this on your own.”
Charlie’s heart throbbed in her throat at the conviction in Logan’s face as he sat on the bed. She squeezed her thighs together, so desperate to pee she was worried she might wet the bed if he didn’t leave soon.
She’d been listening to him shower, and get ready to go into town for the renovation day the calendar dudes had scheduled for Harry’s House a week ago—which she couldn’t have been more grateful for.
She’d thought it all through. Logan couldn’t be here. She had to do the test on her own. And then decide how to handle it. She’d made a ninny of herself last night. Made him feel responsible when he wasn’t. She wasn’t going to be that weak and pathetic again.
Unfortunately she hadn’t factored in her weak bladder, or Logan’s complete inability to take a hint.
“H
onestly, Logan, I’d rather do this on my own,” she said, deciding to be blunt, before she ended up in a pool of her own making.
“You sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll text you the result. If it’s…” She swallowed, not sure she could even say it. “If it’s something we need to discuss, we can talk about it tonight.”
He didn’t look too happy about her decision.
“Okay, I guess if that’s the way you want to play it.”
“It is.”
Nodding, he got off the bed. Leaning down, he kissed her on the lips, the lingering taste of him crucifying her almost as much as her bursting bladder. But when he straightened, he didn’t leave. He stood for two pregnant seconds before saying. “Whatever the result, I want you to know I’d be happy, Charlotte. Because you make me happy.”
What?
It was the last thing she had expected him to say. “I…” she began, then her tongue just stalled. What did he mean by that?
“Don’t freak out,” he said, his lips crinkling with humor. “All I’m saying is. I like having you here.” He thrust his hands through his hair, frustrated, searching for the right words. “I like having you here a lot. I think we’re great together. And I want you to stay. Not just for a few weeks but for…you know…for longer. With me. If you want to. And I hope you do.”
“But I can’t stay,” she murmured, horrified by the foolish spurt of hope blossoming in her chest at the warmth in his voice. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? That he loved her?
“I don’t know what to say,” she added.
Which had to be a first for her.
“Then don’t say anything, Charlotte. I’m just asking you to think about it, okay. I know it’s a lot to ask. And it’s kind of sudden. And I should have told you this before now. But I just don’t want you to panic if the result is positive. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded, although she was already panicking.
“Great.” He kissed her again. “I’ll be back at four, no later. Text me—whatever the news is I want to know.”