by L. A. Fiore
“Nice,” Broderick says. “We’re here to take you to the ball. Logan’s meeting us there.”
I grab my wrap. “I’m ready.”
Traffic, a first for our little town, is clogging our way. The closer we get to our destination, I see the news vans and reporters.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I guess the Seaweed Festival has attracted interest,” Broderick offers.
Why? My airborne narcotic theory is looking better and better. We park and walk up the steps, but we’re delayed as our pictures are taken. I have to say that I feel a little bit like I’m on the red carpet. When we get inside, we see far more people than I was expecting. Everyone looks so beautiful. As soon as we’re spotted, attention turns to us. It’s odd, but before I can ponder it, more of my friends emerge from the crowd. The men, like Broderick and Dante, are wearing tuxes and Gwen is wearing a gown, the color the barest of pinks, a Carmen Marc Valvo couture, I believe, and against her skin tone it looks ethereal.
“You look stunning, Gwen.”
“Thank you. And you, you look”—she wipes at a tear rolling down her cheek—“happy, Saffron, really, truly happy. You deserve this.”
I want to ask, deserve what? But Josh speaks up. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the doors leading into the ball and takes my wrap from me.
“Where’s Logan?” I ask.
“He’s already inside.” Broderick holds out his arm. “Ready?”
I’m clearly not on the same page as everyone else and then the doors open on a room looking like something out of a magazine. The ceiling is draped in pale-gold fabric with white twinkling lights that give the effect of being both whimsical and elegant.
“I thought this was the Seaweed Festival. Where’s the kelp?” My brain is clearly not working on all cylinders, stunned by the beauty before me.
“No kelp, Saffron,” says Josh.
He can say that again. The walls are also covered in pale gold. Scattered throughout the large space are six-foot-tall, free-standing, four-arm silver candlesticks holding gold candles, and nestled within their arms rest arrangements of flowers: pink and white sweet peas, white and purple hydrangeas, dark-pink peonies and yellow roses accented with lycopodium. Large circular tables with delicate gold chairs, artistically arranged around the large space, are covered in pale-gold cloth, fine bone china, crystal stemware, silver cutlery, and centered in each is the same floral arrangement, just on a smaller scale.
Logan, dressed completely in black, walks across the floor in that elegant way of his. “You look exquisite.”
Tingles work along my skin, not just at the compliment, but at the expression on his face that reads loud and clear: mine. As magnificent as it all is, I’m completely confused. “I don’t understand. What is all of this?”
He doesn’t answer my question, but asks, “Did you see the cake?”
On the opposite side of the room on a table draped in gold is, in fact, a cake, though that word seems weak given what I see. It’s six-tiered, pearly white, with flowers cascading down the side, edible versions of the flowers in the arrangements. “It’s beautiful. Is that the kelp cake? You and George made that?” They had missed their calling.
He laughs as the band starts to play “One Thing” from Gabe Dixon. He draws me out onto the dance floor.
His lips brush over my jaw before he whispers, “Do you like your surprise?”
I pull slightly back. “I’m still not getting it.”
A smile curves his lips, but he says nothing and only holds me closer. I rest my head against his chest and realize we are the only ones dancing. Not only aren’t people dancing, but everyone is standing around the dance floor watching us while camera flashes spark around the room. When the song comes to an end, Logan takes a step back from me and gets down on one knee. My heart slams into my ribs. He reaches for my hand.
“From the very first moment I saw you, I knew that you were the one for me. I love you, Saffron Dupree. I want a lifetime with you, getting nailed in the face by funnel cakes, watching movies in our pj’s, avoiding the Fletcher car when we’re walking down the sidewalk. I want to get drunk on your laugh and lose my breath when I look into your eyes. Marry me.”
The tears that had collected in the corners of my eyes are now running down my face: happy tears, ecstatic tears. I’m shaking my head yes, trying to push the words out, but he doesn’t need them. He stands, takes my hand, and slides on his ring: an oval diamond that’s at least four carats, framed by baguettes and nestled in a platinum band. Flashes go off around the room, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he looks deeply into my eyes. He lowers his head and presses his lips to mine, a mere brushing of lips, and then he cradles my face in his palms and takes the kiss deeper.
As dinner is being served, I’m still in mild shock. Logan proposed—I guess my friends did know something I didn’t. I’m deliriously happy. My insides are all tingly like bubbles in champagne; the fact that I haven’t splintered apart into sparkly wonder is amazing. What I don’t get, though, is why all the cameras. I lean a bit closer to Logan and whisper, “This is all incredible, but why the fanfare?”
There’s love looking back at me. “For better or for worse, David Cambre is a part of who I am and if I want to share all of myself with you, then a part of that is sharing you with David’s world, which is why I invited the press. Besides, I want everyone to know that I’m in love”—he traces the line of my jaw—“and that my heart is no longer my own.”
We share a moment as I let those words settle over me. “So, is it safe to say there is no seaweed ball?”
He chuckles and rests his hand on the back of my chair so his fingers can brush along the nape of my neck.
“We tried to think of the most absurd thing. Josh came up with seaweed.”
Josh is laughing behind his hand.
“I’m actually relieved, because I was seriously beginning to think our town was under some kind of mass hallucination. Wait, so what was up with the kelp cake?”
“I needed to distract you while the party planner walked through town. It’s also why I suggested visiting the house Frank left you. I needed you away.”
My eyes widen a moment before narrowing. “You’re sneaky. Chastity was in on it then.”
“Oh yeah, liked the idea of tricking you far more than the situation warranted,” Logan replies.
“And Shalee?”
I can tell from his blank look that he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Shalee wrapped herself in seaweed for the parade. Really, Logan, you missed her? She was sexy sushi right there on Main Street.”
His eyes roam over me in a very slow and blatant perusal, before his gaze returns to mine and it’s sex, pure and simple, in that hot stare. “I didn’t miss anything.”
“Oh dear God,” I moan and reach for my water glass. Pity I can’t just pour it right on my head.
Josh provides the insight on Shalee. “She heard about the camera crews, so she tried to get her fifteen minutes of fame.”
“And so she thinks of a seaweed wrap? Well, I hope that worked out for her,” I say.
“Actually, it didn’t, because she got an allergic reaction. I’d never seen full-body hives before,” Derek adds.
I shudder. I can’t really help it.
Logan hasn’t stopped kissing and touching me, and when he isn’t near me his eyes just soak up the sight of me. I’m engaged. I don’t think I’ve fully grasped that concept yet. What I have grasped is that Logan went to a lot of effort to make this night perfect. Even with all the reporters and cameras, it’s still just Harrington and everyone I’d want to celebrate with.
We cut the cake, which, thankfully, is decadent chocolate, not kelp, have a champagne toast, and then Logan whisks me from the hall while the party is still going on.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we practically run down the steps of Town Hall only to find a limo parked and waiting with a chauffeur holding the door open for us. Once we’re insid
e, Logan’s mouth is on mine as his hands roam and claim every part of me he touches. He draws me back with him as he settles against the seat, his hands on the hem of my skirt, lifting it as he settles me on his lap so that my legs are straddling him.
“Have you ever done it in a limo?” he whispers, and he sounds just like a teenager before his lips burn a trail down my throat.
“No.”
“Me neither.” And then those eyes find mine. “But I really, really want to.”
“Oh God, me too.”
His eyes turn even darker before his mouth claims mine. I pull my mouth from his and press a kiss to his ear. “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Instantly, I feel him grow hard under me. I reach for the button of his trousers. His hands move up my legs to my hips. He lifts my dress so that my ass is bare. His hands moving over my skin make lust burn right down to my toes. I wrap my hand around his erection and pull him free and take a moment to fondle the length of him, loving the way he feels so hard and silky smooth. Guiding the head right where we both want it, I sink down hard, my body stretching to take him. He tugs my dress down to free my breasts and I respond my pressing myself into him as his tongue flicks my nipple. My hips take on the age-old dance and I slide up and down along his hard length. His thumb moves between my legs and when I come, I bury my face in his neck to stifle my moan. His hands tighten on me seconds before he comes, a growl rumbling low in his throat. When I lift my head, he looks positively sinful and sounds it too. “Definitely need to do that again.”
Putzing around the house the next day, I can’t seem to stop staring at my ring. I spoke to Logan’s parents earlier; they’re catching a flight next week. I’m really looking forward to meeting them in person, because the folks I spoke with over the phone were delightful. I’m also sad that Frank isn’t here to walk me down the aisle, but I plan on asking Tommy, since he’s been like a brother to me in every sense of the word. I give a passing thought to sharing the news with my parents, but the last conversation with my mom is still fresh in my mind, so I’m not feeling particularly chatty.
In the living room, my eyes fall on the chess set. Frank’s last link to Maggie. I couldn’t imagine losing Logan, watching him die and then being forced to live a full life without him. It’s a testament to Frank’s strength that he was able to do so.
A knock at the door has me changing directions. Broderick and Dante are on my front step. I don’t even get a hello out before Broderick grabs me into a hug. “Welcome to the family.”
“Don’t hog, Broderick,” Dante teases before he pulls me into a hug as well. “Now you are officially our little sister. Our brother is a rock head, but he’s a good guy and he loves you.”
So this is what it feels like to have a real family. Broderick says, “He’ll make you happy. There’s baggage with Logan, as you know, the celebrity part of his world can be a serious drag, but you do learn to deal.”
“I’ve had a small taste of it and I know I’m going to have to get thicker skin, but it isn’t going to make me walk away from him. Is that what you’re worried about?” The worry I sense coming from Broderick is surprising.
“Logan has to deal with this nonsense, it’s part of his gig, but you’ll be forced to deal with it too. It can be overwhelming and, depending on how much the press sinks into the story, infuriating. But it does all eventually even out.”
“I’ll weather the storm, Broderick.”
“And we’ll be here to help you.”
I won’t ask, since Broderick is clearly concerned, but just how bad is it going to get?
“How are the job descriptions going?” Dante changes the subject.
“I just finished them before we went to New York, was going to drop by later, but I’ll get them now.”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
As I retrieve the papers, Dante is still talking. “We’re going to need to make the house handicap accessible, which means getting a contractor to detail what needs to be done.”
“I didn’t think of that.” I place the pages in front of Dante. “Okay, I need to look at furnishing the house too, how many beds in a room, etc.”
“Not to mention bathrooms. The house has . . . three? We may need to add another in the basement. I have a list of contractors. We can get some references,” Broderick suggests.
For the next hour or so we talk about Dupree House.
Broderick and Dante have just left when there’s another knock at the door. Thinking they forgot something, I open the door saying, “Did you . . .” But my words die on my tongue at the sight of Darla. Surprise isn’t a strong enough word to express my feelings about seeing Darla in Maine. What the hell is she doing here? She doesn’t wait to be invited in. She breezes into my house like an old Hollywood starlet. She’s still wearing Logan’s ring. Is that why she’s here?
“What are you doing here, Darla? How the hell did you get here?”
“Plane.” That’s spoken as if it’s obvious, which I guess it kind of is. “You don’t heed advice very well, do you?”
These are her words of greeting. I don’t think I would have started in with that.
“Meaning?”
“I warned you to stay out of it.”
It takes me a minute to understand what’s she’s implying and, when I do, my mouth drops open. “Are you saying you’re the person who sent me the threats?”
“Well, of course, who else?”
Right, who else? I suppose it’s comforting to know that there isn’t a line forming around my house or, more to the point, that the mastermind behind the threats isn’t a criminal genius.
“I see you’re still wearing his ring,” I say.
“I’m engaged to him. Of course I’m wearing his ring.”
“You really aren’t, though. You haven’t been for quite some time, and I’d think this would have sunk in by now. It isn’t really a hard concept to grasp.”
“What?”
“He’s suing you. He has done everything he can to make it clear that you are over. Why won’t you move on?”
“No, I won’t move on.”
I stand there and wait for more: the declaration of her undying love, her inability to live without him, or any reason at all that would make a grown woman continue to chase after a man who doesn’t want her, and has made that clear via legal counsel. But I get nothing except another no, delivered much in the way Callie delivers her no when she doesn’t want to go to bed.
Leaning up against the wall, I find I’m actually enjoying myself. “So what exactly is the plan here? You want him and he isn’t interested, but you won’t take no for an answer. What’s next?”
An expression remarkably like that of a belligerent child crosses over her face. “I sent you the package.”
I widen my eyes at that before I clarify, “The bird’s head?”
“Yes.”
“So your plan is to kill the competition?” Stepping from the wall, I glance out the window and, as suspected, there is a big-ass limo parked right in front of my house. I turn back to Darla.
“Okay, so you travel here, via plane, using your own name, I’m guessing.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Rent that”—I point to the limo—“under your name and park that huge white attention-getter right in front of my house, with a potential witness in the driver, so you can come in here and kill me? Did you think this through at all or are you just winging it?”
She clenches her hands into fists and stomps her foot before she half-screams and half-whines. “He’s mine.”
Honestly, it’s like dealing with a spoiled child. Using my best mother voice, I snap, “Enough!”
Her rant instantly stops and her crestfallen expression still looks like that of a bewildered child.
“Are you aware that the sheriff has your little package and that a report has been filed? If I wanted to, I could press charges and have you sent to jail since you used the postal service, which automatically makes
it a federal offense.”
Her face immediately pales.
“Exactly. This isn’t a game. You walk into my home and threaten me. Are you aware that as an intruder in my home you could get shot and the law would be on my side?”
I can tell from her deer-in-the-headlights expression that, no, she had not thought of that. “This is the real world, and not the pampered one you live in, so unless you’re prepared to carry out your threats, I suggest you go home, have a good cry, and then move on.” I step a bit closer. “I’ll give you this one meltdown, but if you come at me again I will sic the law on you. And by coming here today in such a very visible way, you’re helping to establish a pattern of aggressive behavior. You aren’t making it very difficult for the cops to build a case against you.”
And as if on cue, my front door opens and in walks Logan and Sheriff Dwight. Logan looks stupendously pissed.
“I warned you, Darla.”
“It’s okay. Darla was just leaving, weren’t you?”
But her eyes are on my hand stretched out to pause the men, and the ring she didn’t see earlier. When she lifts her head to Logan, her eyes are filled with tears. “You really have moved on.”
Some of the harshness eases from his tone. “Yes.”
Her expression is like watching a curtain lift to reveal the wizard as reality sinks in. She walks to Logan and yanks off her ring.
“Keep it,” he says.
“No.”
He holds out his hand and she drops it into his palm. “I won’t bother you again.”
And then she’s gone, her exit a far cry from her dramatic entrance.
“Are you folks good?” Sheriff Dwight asks.
“How did you know she was here?” With timing like that maybe Logan is the wizard.
“I’ve got eyes on her. My PI told me she was catching a flight into Bar Harbor. Overestimated a bit on how long it was going to take her to get here.”
The following morning I wake, but Logan’s side of the bed is empty, and his sheets cold. Climbing from bed and pulling on the robe that Logan left draped over a chair for me, I go in search of him. I find him in his studio, but he isn’t sitting behind an easel. Instead he is looking outside. I take a moment to enjoy the view, his broad, tense shoulders and muscled back tapering to his narrow waist.