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“Despite my job, I actually agree.”
“Then, let’s be in the moment, Pete.”
Logan pulls me closer, lifting a hand to cup my head, nestling me against his chest. His fingertips trail over my neck before coming back to rest on my waist.
I close my eyes, getting lost in Logan’s scent and the safe feel of being held right here.
Logan’s right about being in the moment. This is one of those where I wish I could hit pause. The kind of moment I want to revel in, burrowing down like it’s a warm, comfy bed where I can shut out the whole rest of the world.
I want time to spin out slow and thick and sweet like taffy. I want to stay right here for an eternity of seconds, my cheek on Logan’s firm chest, his hands warm and strong on my waist, his fingers moving lightly over the fabric of my dress. When I shiver, Logan spreads those big hands wide over my back, nestling me even closer.
“Cold?” Then, with a note of teasing in his voice, he says, “Or scared?”
“Neither. I’m happy.”
“You shiver when you’re happy, Pete?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would, actually,” Logan says, and then his voice changes. It’s sincere and impassioned. “We’ve lost years, and that’s my fault. But I want to know what I missed. To know who you are now, Parker, and who you want to be. Not to start over but to start fresh.”
The words make my eyes prick with tears. They sound like a confession, and not the close friends kind.
But am I delusional to think Logan could want more?
Withme?
It’s not lost on me that Logan is saying this when I can’t see his face, as though hiding allows him to be brave.
His words sound like …feelingswords. Like something you say at the start of a relationship. Not simply rekindling an old friendship.
Or maybe it’s been too long since I’ve been in a relationship. My radar is broken. Maybe my wishful thinking is hearing what it wants to hear. What it’s always wanted to hear.
“I’d like that too.”
“Like what?” he asks, the teasing tone reappearing in his voice.
“What you said.”
“What did I say?”
“You’re going to make me repeat it?” I ask.
“Seems only fair,” he says. “I said it first. Repeating it sounds a whole lot easier. And”—he tilts his head, lowering it so his lips brush my cheek—“despite what you might think about athletes and egos, we’re just one harsh word away from curling up in the fetal position.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“Well, maybe I’d just like to hear how you feel,” he says. He clearly shaved before tonight, but there’s still the slightest scratch of his stubble on my cheek. It makes the moment feel more real. “I’d like to know what you want.”
How I feel? What I want? Nowthere’sa pair of loaded questions.
I try to pluck the perfect words from my mind to confess how I feel without laying myself completely bare. Without opening myself up to a whole world of hurt I have no doubt will eventually follow this night.
It’s been too magical. Toonotfake. Too close to what I really want. Too good to last.
Everything in me wants to open up again. Except the part borne out of the hurt Logan caused when he left. That part wants to raise the drawbridge and add some crocodiles to the moat in front of my castle.
I ignore the scared part of me. I choose bravery instead. I choose to be reckless. I choose hope.
