Lies I Told (11 page)

The gate was closed when I turned in to Logan's driveway. I pulled up to the little box and rolled down the window of the Saab, not sure what to do. I was about to start pressing random buttons when Logan's voice came over the intercom.

“I'll buzz you in. Just pull up in front of the garage.”

I didn't have time to respond before the iron gates sprang to life. I glanced once more at the keypad, taking a mental snapshot of it to draw for my dad later, and started up the driveway. The sun hung low in the sky, setting the sea on fire in the distance. The glare produced bursts of light through the trees as I wound my way toward the house. It made it hard to get a good look at the property, and I squinted even behind my sunglasses, trying to keep my eyes focused on the driveway.

Finally the house came into view, and I maneuvered the
car beside a white Range Rover in front of one of the three garage doors. Logan met me on the porch, lined with pumpkins and strung with a garland of autumn leaves. He looked happy to see me, and my heart fluttered a little at the sight of him, barefoot in well-worn jeans and a V-neck tee that was loose enough to be casual but fitted enough to show off his lean muscles.

He smiled. “Sorry about that. I have to keep the gates closed when my parents aren't home.”

“It's fine,” I said. “Your parents aren't here?”

He reached out a hand as I climbed the steps to the porch. I took it, and a rush of warmth spread from my fingers to the rest of my body.

“They had a dinner. Some kind of charity thing.” He stopped, looking a little worried. “Is that okay? Because if you're not comfortable being here alone, we can hit up a movie or something.”

I was touched that he'd ask. I was used to doing things that needed to be done. Whether or not I wanted to wasn't usually part of the equation.

“It's fine. As long as they don't mind.”

He opened the front door and led me into the foyer. “Not at all. I told them you were coming and that we were going to watch a movie.”

“Great.”

He closed the door. “Have you eaten?”

I nodded.

“Does that mean you're too full for popcorn?”

I laughed. “Is there such a thing?”

He grinned, leading me toward the kitchen. “You're perfect.”

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked.

“Nah. I've got this covered.” He pulled out a stool at the big kitchen island, indicating that I should take a seat, and went to work opening cupboards, choosing a big pot and a bottle of oil from the pantry.

“Are you making popcorn or a four-course meal?” I teased, watching him.

He stopped moving. “Don't tell me you've never had real popcorn?”

“And by real you mean . . . ?”

He set the pot on the stove. “Not nuked in the microwave.”

I thought about it. “I've had it at the movie theater.”

He shook his head. “Doesn't count. Now I consider it my duty to initiate you in the ways of real popcorn.”

“Great,” I laughed. “A life skill I can really use.”

“Trust me,” he said, “you'll use this way more than trig.”

He moved easily around the kitchen, pouring oil into the hot pan and swirling it in the bottom, waiting for it to get hot before pouring in the popcorn kernels. He put the lid on the pan and turned his attention back to me.

“So do you miss it?” he asked. “San Francisco?”

I had to think about it. Both because we hadn't really come from San Francisco and because, here with Logan in the warm kitchen, my other life seemed very far away.

“Not really.” I searched my memory for things I'd learned about San Francisco during my research. “It was pretty, but crowded. Playa Hermosa feels . . .” I expected him to fill in the blank. People usually did. But he just looked at me, regarding me with interest. Like he had all the time in the world to listen. “Apart,” I finally finished.

He shook the pan a little as the sound of kernels popping against the pan rang into the kitchen. “Apart?”

“Just . . . separate from everything else, I guess.”

“And you like being separate?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I admitted.

He smiled a little, his eyes never leaving mine. “Me too.”

The corn was popping full speed, and I watched with fascination as it lifted the lid from the pan, the time between pops slowly dwindling. Logan turned off the heat and grabbed an oven mitt, turning the popcorn out into a big bowl he'd set next to the stove.

“And what about your friends?” he asked, dropping a stick of butter into the still hot pan. “Do you miss them?”

The butter sizzled as I tried to regain my footing. Guys usually liked to talk about themselves, and since the only guys I'd ever dated had been part of a con, I'd been happy to let them. This was different. I had to provide details. Had to make things up about San Francisco and school and friends that hadn't really been friends. And I had to do it with a straight face while looking into Logan's mossy eyes. Of course, I knew I'd be lying on the job. Knew I'd do a lot of it before the con was over and we moved on to another town.
But now, looking into Logan's face, his eyes so attentive, so
interested
, it somehow felt more wrong.

“Not as much as you might think. When you know you're going to move, you try not to get too attached. To anything.” It was more true than I wanted to admit. More true than I should have admitted.

He nodded as he poured the melted butter over the popcorn. Then he threw in a handful of salt and tossed it all together with a rubber spatula before pushing the bowl toward me.

“I await your verdict.”

I plucked a couple of pieces from the bowl and popped them into my mouth. It was perfect, covered with a thin coat of salt and butter and not at all dry.

He raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Amazing,” I said. “Completely different from theater or microwave popcorn.”

“Exactly!” He opened the door to the fridge. “What can I get you to drink?”

We chose sodas, and he picked up the bowl of popcorn and led me upstairs to the media room. I expected it to be lavish, fitted with a big-screen TV and movie projector and those fancy chairs that lean back, but it was just a cozy room, its walls lined with bookshelves, the floors covered in what looked to be old, intricately designed overlapping rugs.

“Have a seat.” He indicated the overstuffed sectional in the middle of the room, and I sat down, setting my soda on a
coaster on the coffee table. “What kind of movie do you feel like watching?”

We spent twenty minutes browsing the Fairchilds' DVD collection before settling on
Almost Famous
. We'd both seen it, but it was one of my favorites, and I had a feeling that sitting next to Logan for two hours was going to make concentrating difficult. Better to go with something I'd already seen.

He sat close to me, the bowl of popcorn resting on both our legs, his bare arm brushing against mine. I had to fight to keep a blank expression while inside, a fire began to smolder. I wondered if he felt it, too. If I was just imagining the chemistry between us. But about halfway through the movie, he lifted the popcorn off our legs. His T-shirt strained against his broad shoulders as he leaned forward to set the bowl on the coffee table. When he sat back, he angled his body toward me and took my hand, all pretense of watching the movie gone.

“Grace . . .” He looked into my eyes, and I felt his hand tremble over mine. He opened my fingers, lifting my hand to his mouth and touching his lips to the tender skin of my palm. I had to fight not to gasp as heat rushed through my body like mercury. “I really, really like you.”

“I really . . . really like you, too.” The words caught in my throat a little, tripping over the desire building in my veins.

He lowered my hand, still holding it as he leaned in, tension pulling between us like a velvet cord. Part of me wanted to run. To get away before it was too late. I think I knew that once his lips touched mine, I'd be lost. But the other part
of me was screaming for him. And it didn't matter anyway. A second later his mouth was on mine, and then there was no room for thought. No room for plotting, for the con, for plans of escape.

His lips were gentle at first, his kiss almost chaste. Then his tongue flicked against my lips, sending a lick of fire through my insides. I opened to him like the jasmine that bloomed on the peninsula under the light of the moon. He pulled me closer as he explored my mouth, holding my face in his palms like he wanted to be sure I was real, wanted to be sure I wouldn't disappear.

But I was disappearing. Melting into him, losing myself in his kiss, in the feel of his hands as they moved down my neck, his fingers twining themselves in my hair. For a while there was nothing in the world but us, floating in a universe of our own making. When the fog finally lifted, it was only because the credits were rolling on the movie, the music a little too loud.

I was lying on the sofa, Logan's body stretched next to mine. We were both fully clothed. We'd done nothing but kiss, although that seemed too mild a word to describe how we'd spent the last two hours, how it had made me feel. He dropped a kiss on my nose as he reached for the remote, silencing the TV. Then he pulled me close again, lying next to me on the couch.

Emotion surged through my body as I laid my head against his chest, listening to the soft
thump-thump
of his heart.

“You're shaking,” Logan said, hugging me tighter, kissing the top of my head.

“Am I?” I hadn't realized it, had been too caught up in the raw feeling swirling through my body.

“Yeah,” he said. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

He was silent for a minute. “I'm not playing games with you, Grace. You know that, don't you?”

I nodded against his chest.

He pulled back a little, looking down into my face. “I've never felt so . . . drawn to someone. You know?”

“I know,” I whispered.

“I can't explain it, but it's like as soon as I saw you, I just knew.”

“Knew what?”

He smiled a little. “That I wanted you, of course.”

I felt the corners of my mouth lift.

“So what about it?” he asked. “Will you be mine, Grace?”

Nodding was almost a reflex. A formality. I was already his.

Later, we leaned against the Saab, lingering as we said good-bye against the sound of the waves crashing on the cliffs below. I was still a little fuzzy around the edges, like nothing existed beyond the sudden promise of our feelings for each other.

Reality didn't hit me until I was halfway home, navigating
the dark and windy roads of the peninsula. I had agreed to be Logan's girlfriend, and while my mom and dad would be pleased—it would only make getting information on the Fairchilds easier—I knew it wasn't that simple.

Logan made me forget who I was. Why I was here. And if I needed proof of how dangerous that was, I didn't need to look any further than the time we'd spent together. Because while I'd been wrapped up in Logan, I hadn't done a single thing to case the Fairchild estate.

The house was dark when I pulled up in front. It wasn't until I stepped into the foyer that I saw the flickering blue light of the TV coming from the family room. I hesitated, guessing at my chances of making it upstairs without being noticed. I wasn't up for conversation. Wasn't up for giving an account of my night with Logan. Right now, it still belonged to the two of us. Once I let my mom and dad and Parker in on all the details, it would be just another move on the game board. I wondered if its magic would hold up to the harsh light of day.

But I couldn't avoid them. Whoever was up was waiting for me to get home. Trying to sneak past them would only look suspicious. I left my bag on the table in the hall and headed for the family room.

Parker was on the sofa, his shadow backlit against the TV.

“How was it?” he asked without turning around.

“Fine.” I dropped next to him on the couch. “How was hanging out with Rachel?”

I kept my tone even, hoping Parker wouldn't guess I was evading the question.

He reached for the remote and muted the TV. “Uneventful, more or less.”

“More or less?”

He looked around the room, like he wanted to make sure no one was around.

“Don't,” I warned, wanting to head off anything that might be against the rules outside the War Room.

He nodded. “I can't quite get a handle on her.”

I didn't know whether to be relieved or even more worried than before. On the one hand, at least I wasn't the only one having trouble with Rachel Mercer. But if she was being careful around Parker, too, it could only mean she didn't trust any of us.

“She invited you to hang out,” I reminded him.

“I know,” he said. “Which is why it's weird.” We sat in silence for a minute until he spoke again. “So? What about Logan?”

I shrugged. “It was nice. We made popcorn, watched a movie.”

His look was knowing. “That's not what I'm asking.”

I took a deep breath, casting a glance at the stairs. “Parker . . .”

We couldn't talk in the family room, and Parker knew it. But if I was honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I was
relieved. Relieved that being outside the War Room gave me an excuse to keep private the details of my time with Logan, even if it was just until tomorrow.

He nodded, his jaw tight.

“We'll talk tomorrow,” I promised, rising from the couch. And we would, whether I wanted to or not. Parker wouldn't be the only one asking questions about my night with Logan. I looked at the TV, still on mute. “You coming up?”

He kept his eyes on the screen. “In a bit.”

“Okay, good night.”

“Night, Grace.”

I made my way upstairs, trying to stuff down the lump in my throat. For the first time since we'd become family, I was keeping things from Parker. They were piling up between us, making it hard for us to see each other like we used to. Now we were peering around our secrets, around all the things left unsaid, trying to figure out if there was still someone on the other side. I hated it. I just didn't know what to do about it.

I threw on pajamas, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. Then I climbed into bed and turned off the light. The night was mild, the curtains billowing at the open window. I breathed in the moist brine that seemed to hang in the air on the peninsula and thought of Logan. Was he lying in bed, thinking about me, too?

I replayed every moment of the night, from his grin when I'd arrived to the first time his lips touched mine to the heat that had blossomed between us on the sofa. I tossed
and turned, remembering the feel of his body, the look in his eyes—part desire, part tenderness—as he'd gazed down at me.

I told myself that it was only natural to get worked up. I was a sixteen-year-old girl. Logan was hot. And nice. It felt good to be held. To be kissed. To be touched. It was biology, that's all.

“He's just a guy,” I whispered into the dark. A reminder. “Just a mark.”