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“I’d like to start fresh too,” I tell him. “I want to catch up on what I missed, to fill the gaps, to get to know the Logan ofnow.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I’m not sure you’ll like the Logan of now.”
“I do like the Logan of now,” I tell him. Perhaps a littletoofirmly. But I hate hearing him sound unsure.
Logan slides his hands up my back slowly, then down again. I do my best not to react, but another shiver moves through me. I know Logan feels it when he chuckles. His breath on my neck makes me shiver again.
Even if my words hadn’t said it all, the way I react to even the simplest touch from Logan is a bold confession about how happy he makes me. With all my might, I shoot a wish into the universe that I won’t regret opening myself up to Logan a second time.
CHAPTER15
Parker
An hour later,we still haven’t left the dance floor. After our initial slow dance, the band picked up the tempo and I fully expected Logan to lead me away for drinks or the buffet. Instead, I was totally shocked when he smirked (like he knew just what I was thinking), twirled me expertly (like this is something he does all the time), and then proceeded to show off his moves (like his life depended on it).
And let me tell you—the man hasmoves.
His hips? They don’t lie. His feet? Not guilty, because they have gotseriousrhythm. His groove thing? Thoroughly shaken.
The best part—besides simply watching Logan—is the way he keeps touching me. Even in the faster songs, we never go more than a few seconds without him taking my hand or holding my hips or brushing his fingers along the bare skin of my shoulders. The only time we’re more than a few inches apart is when he pauses to take off his jacket and throw it over a chair.
“For a man who doesn’t like dancing, you sure do it well,” I tell Logan now, leaning closer so he can hear me over the instrumental version of “Uptown Funk.”
“I never said I didn’t like dancing,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
“Yes, you did!”
He shakes his head, the smallest of smiles lifting one corner of his mouth. “I said I came here to play hockey, not dance. And I told you I don’t like the spotlight. I never said I don’t like dancing.”
I think back to our conversations, realizing he’s right. “Well, you certainly gave me theimpressionyou don’t like dancing.”
“It just takes the right partner.”
Though the song is fast, Logan pulls me close with both his hands on my hips. I slide my hands up his chest and around his neck. Our eyes lock. The other dancers disappear. The music fades.
I’m no longer at my father’s birthday gala. I’m not even in Harvest Hollow. Logan and I are tucked away inside our own little wrinkle in time.
As the moment stretches, so does the intensity. Something is building between us, gathering momentum like a boulder hurtling down a hill. I can sense the cliff’s edge just before I go flying over.
And that’s when I step back, pulling away from Logan as reality snaps back into place like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far.
“I need some air,” I say.
I don’t dare meet Logan’s eyes as I dart from the dance floor, trying to catch my breath and shift my trajectory.
Fake,I remind myself.Fakity fake fake fake.
The problem is … Logan’s not just leasing real estate in my mind. There is no renting to own. He’s like the guy who buys up a whole side of the board in Monopoly and plants a hotel on every spot.
He catches up to me at the bar, where I’m gulping down a bottle of water. He grabs one for himself and then places a hand on my lower back. “How about we get some food and find a quiet corner?”
My stomach growls an enthusiastic yes.
But a quiet corner? That sounds downright dangerous.
Still, I nod, and after Logan reacquires his jacket, we beeline toward the food. The buffet is a lavish affair, complete with carving station and the fanciest of finger foods. When we’ve loaded up plates, Logan tilts his head toward a far corner of the room. But he doesn’t stop at one of the linen-covered tables like I expect. Instead, he leads me outside to a patio garden.
As the doors close behind us, the music, lights, and voices fade. Only a few couples and small groups are outside, faces cast in shadows. A few gas fire pits are lit with groups of chairs and large potted plants creating semi-private seating areas. Logan leads me to a back corner with a small loveseat tucked away behind a vine-covered trellis.
