Blow (27 page)

LOGAN

T
errific,
I thought.

When she slammed the door, I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if I’d stabbed myself in the heart.

Guns, I could handle. The torture of high-society galas—a piece of cake. Fuck, even the threat of physical pain didn’t faze me anymore. But women—I didn’t know a damn thing about how to cope with their feelings. Just the word
feelings
had my stomach in knots.

I let out a forced breath. At least I’d told her just how serious things were. She needed to know. Thinking about it now, I felt a surge of relief. And something else—a strange feeling I couldn’t quite describe.

Fucking feelings.

Toughening up, I looked at the situation realistically. Elle could be angry with me if she wanted, but she wasn’t going out alone. I winced that I’d told her she should leave. Like I’d let her. There was no fucking way that was happening. I needed to learn to tame my temper around her because I could tell she wasn’t going to make excuses for me.

Time to get ready. I grabbed my sweatshirt, hat, and sunglasses that were thrown on the chair from the other day, and then I slipped my gun into my back holster where I always carried it.

While I waited, I glanced out the window. The Charles River was glassy with the sun reflecting off it. Spring was close and the dead of winter was gone. I stared out at the Boston skyline and the in-between stage the city was in. Most of trees were bare, but some were starting to bloom. Within the next month, the Public Garden would be filled with blooming cherry blossoms and the swan boat would be in full gear. Busying my thoughts with random facts about the city helped distract me from what was blooming within myself. That was one thing I didn’t want to come to life.

I won’t say she snuck up on me, but let’s just say I didn’t hear the pitter-patter of Clementine’s tiny feet, until I felt someone tugging on my pants.

“Up,” she demanded.

With a glance down, I froze like a deer in headlights.

She tugged again. “Up,” she repeated.

She wanted me to pick her up?

With uncertainty, I glanced toward the doorway just as Elle entered the room. “Come on, Clementine—we’ll go outside where you can see the ducks better,” she said.

When I looked back out the window, I noticed the flock of ducks. Funny, I hadn’t before. “You want to see them?” I asked Clementine, pointing out the window.

The cute little thing nodded with glee.

Unable to deny her, I picked her up under her arms and put her on my hip like I’d seen Elle do.

She leaned toward the glass until her forehead was touching it and started saying, “Duck, duck, quack-quack.”

Her excitement was contagious and with a genuine smile on my face, I turned toward Elle to say something but paused for a moment just to look at her. Her hair was pulled back, but still it appeared untamed.

Beautiful.

Like her.

The thought of taming her or better yet, never taming her, had my blood pumping. Her ginger locks still bounced, even tied back, as she wheeled the empty stroller to the door. They were mesmerizing. I watched her until I realized she was gathering her bags and getting ready to leave. And then my heart felt like it was swinging at a ball and missing the contact with each try. Like I just couldn’t win no matter how hard I tried, but this time, I really wanted to.

With a gruff voice, I said, “Hey, leave that stuff. We’ll figure out what to do with it after we take a walk through the Public Garden.”

It was my way of apologizing.

“We?” she said with a tense, forced smile.

“Yes, I’m coming.” My eyes lingered on hers and I figured I should add, “If that’s okay.”

Elle shrugged coolly. “I guess so. If you want to.”

I was going whether she said yes or no. Still, I was glad she hadn’t said no. However, the frosty response didn’t feel so great. I don’t know what I expected, though. I’d been a real ass. I had some amends to make—obviously. Yet the only way I knew how to handle awkward situations with the ladies was through humor, so I smirked and said, “By the way, we call it the Garden, not the park.”

Her return smile was genuine. “Right. The Boston Public Garden or the Boston Common. I usually run along the paths on the shores of the river and I haven’t ventured into either yet.”

“You’re a runner?”

She nodded. “Yes. Since I got here, I’ve been training for the Boston Marathon. I didn’t know I’d be here, so I didn’t register for it this year. But next year, I plan to run in it.”

I glanced down when a little sneaker kicked my thigh. I’d forgotten I was holding Clementine. “No shi—” I stopped myself from cursing. “No joke, I haven’t missed one in years. What’s your qualifying time?”

She pulled her lip to the side with her teeth as if thinking. “I’ve been consistently running three hours, fifteen minutes.”

“That’s fantastic.”

With a shrug, Elle settled her things and took a hesitant step toward me. Her body language told me she didn’t want to be close.

Was it anger or fighting the want?

I needed to know.

“What is the qualifying standard for women over thirty?” It was an innocent enough question. One that I knew would ease the stifling atmosphere in the room in case it was anger.

She narrowed her eyes at me and snarled, “There is no bracket for women over thirty and by the way, I’m just barely over thirty.”

I studied her face in the soft light. Even with her features bunched up, she was stunning. Beautiful. Natural. My body started to ache for her to be nearer. With nonchalance, I lifted a shoulder and a brow. “That’s right. We’re in the same age bracket.”

“Stop with the Mrs. Robinson jokes. There’s only three years between us. That in no way makes me that much older than you.”

Good. The tension was eased.

I gave her a slight smile. “I guess you’re right.”

She walked over to me and extended her arms to take Clementine. She was careful to leave enough space between us. It didn’t matter. I was drawn to her the moment she entered the room and with paper-thin spaces between us, I couldn’t stop myself from making that physical connection with her that somehow I craved.

“Elle.” I drew out the single syllable and dragged on the tail of it, turning her name into a plea.

“No, Logan.” Elle shook her head and without taking Clementine, took a step back.

My hand grabbed her wrist and tugged her closer. Clementine was oblivious as she stared out the window with both hands on the glass now. With a need I couldn’t explain, I kissed her.

Maybe sensing it was coming, Elle didn’t open her mouth for me. It didn’t stop me from kissing her. My lips parted and I gusted hot breaths over her mouth. I urged her closer with the hand that held her in place. She didn’t struggle to get away. With the tip of my wet tongue, I probed between her lips until she couldn’t fight it and opened her mouth to let me in.

The kiss was harder than it should have been, and when my tongue swept inside her mouth she moved even closer.

I almost felt as if she was shaking.

Elle suddenly jerked her wrist from my grip but didn’t move away. “No, Logan, we can’t,” she said softly, our mouths still so close they almost touched with each word she spoke.

I pulled my head back a little so I could see her. “Why not?”

I knew why I shouldn’t be with her, but not why she thought she shouldn’t be with me—that’s what I needed to know.

Her eyes closed for half a heartbeat. “Because I can’t think straight when we’re this close.”

I wanted to respond with something witty like
I can think for the both of us,
but I knew humor wasn’t the answer. I reached inside myself to figure out what was, but before I could determine that, I was interrupted.

Little hands reached out. “Momma.”

With a proud look, Elle took Clementine.

I stared open-mouthed at what she’d just called Elle.

Elle fidgeted a little and said, “She was with her cousins yesterday and is in a phase where she repeats everything she hears. They called for their mother all day, so now she’s doing it. It will pass.”

I nodded, not so sure about that. Not that I knew anything about kids, but Clementine looked at Elle like she was her mother and Elle looked at Clementine as though she liked it. I felt a sharp pang of hurt when I thought about what would happen when Elle’s sister returned.

“Ready to go?” Elle asked, strapping Clementine into the stroller.

She’d put as much distance between us as she could as fast as she could.

I zipped up my sweatshirt, pulled my hat on, and slid on my sunglasses. “Yeah, let me push that,” I said, indicating the folding contraption she had set Clementine in.

Every muscle in my body flexed as soon as we hit the sidewalk. It was one thing to be alone with Elle; it was entirely another to be out in public. I could feel the thudding in my chest. My fingers were white knuckled wrapped around the handles of the stroller. When a gust of wind blew across my neck, I stiffened even more. With a glance from side to side, I quickly pushed across the street and toward the entrance to the Garden. Making sure Elle could keep up, I stopped and took her hand, placing it with mine on the stroller handle, and she didn’t pull away.

I liked the warmth of her skin near mine.

As soon as we hit one of the entrances and entered the Public Garden, I felt a wave of relief. We looked like every other couple out for a Sunday morning walk to enjoy the breaking weather and admire the early buds of the magnolia trees.

Slowing the pace, I stopped at the first monument we came across.

“William Ellery Channing,” Elle read and glanced at me.

“He was one of our country’s foremost Unitarian ministers.”

She raised a quizzical brow.

I pushed forward. “Hey, I had to come here every year on school field trips. Whether I cared to know or not, I had to learn the name of every monument and why they’re here.”

She laughed.

I liked the sound.

We strolled a bit and stopped at the 9/11 memorial. Knowing that needed no explanation, I let her glance at it for a moment and I looked too. When she was ready, she urged me forward.

I noticed something about Elle: if we pretended to be two people getting to know one another and let go of all the shit that was really going on, she was relaxed. Sure, the sexual tension was still there, but I knew that wasn’t going anywhere no matter what we did unless what we were doing was fucking, which we weren’t. Even now, the way my skin felt heated where her hand was touching mine, I knew she felt it as much as I did.

She leaned in closer when I veered toward the footbridge.

I pointed. “Look, Clementine, the ducks.”

The excitement in my voice had Elle’s head snapping toward me in surprise.

I shrugged. “What? I can’t be excited about ducks?”

She laughed. “I like this side of you.”

I looked at her with an eyebrow slightly tilted. Quizzical. “There’s no other side of me.”

She let her thumb slip around mine, and I felt the intimacy of this minor connection almost as if she’d wrapped her arms around me. “If you say so, but just so you know, I think it’s cute.”

Just yards from the base of the bridge, I stopped and gave her a chaste kiss. It was as if I was compelled. I couldn’t help myself. When we started walking again, I watched the rise and fall of her shoulders as she tried to catch her breath. We affected each other in the most intense way. I, too, had to intentionally relax my breathing.

The three of us stood in the middle of the footbridge and gazed over the railing for the longest time. The joy Clementine radiated at seeing the ducks was contagious, and something inside me had me pulling Elle closer as the little girl stood between us.

Not wanting the moment to end, I led us to a place I thought they would both like—the Duckling Sculpture. And I was right. Excitement gleamed in both their faces and Clementine squealed in delight. The statue was made of bronze and featured nine ducks: Mrs. Mallard and her eight ducklings.

The fact that I remembered that from my childhood blew me away.

But what blew me away even more was that no matter how wrong this thing was between us, right now it had never felt more right.

ELLE

I
stared at that mouth. Those lips . . .

Oh my God.

My heart was beating so fast.

My breathing felt erratic.

He was so masculine. So sexy. So attractive.

Did he know it?

I didn’t think he did.

It wasn’t just the way he walked, or talked, or looked. It was his body language. His mannerisms. The ease in which he moved. It was everything.

We were strolling back to the hotel and talking about the Boston Red Sox. Mid-sentence, he looked over at me through the fringe of his lashes and smiled. It was devastating. Charming. “Don’t you agree?” He asked.

I was melting. That look warmed me all the way to my toes. I had to swallow hard to fight off the lustful feelings flowing through my veins.

Logan bumped my shoulder and said, “Should I be worried that I’m boring you?”

“No, not at all.” My voice had dipped low and husky. It was a voice I’d never heard before. “I do think the Sox will turn it around this year.”