I sighed and said to the cats, “Let’s go to the pond first.”
Yes, I talk to my cats. I’m a lonely house hermit with a lot of cats I converse with. I really don’t know what that says about me except that they are excellent conversationalists.
2
Logan
Logan Hamilton stared into his fireplace, the flames dancing about. It was one o’clock in the morning, but he knew he would not be able to sleep. The lights were off in his third-floor downtown loft, one soft white moonbeam shining in.
Bellini was coming home.
He ran a hand over his face, then leaned his head back on his leather couch and put his feet up on his coffee table. He’d made the coffee table out of wood from an old barn. His work as an architect and builder took up a lot of hours, but he had found over the years that the busier he was, the better. So, he’d taken up carpentry.
He couldn’t care less about carpentry at the moment, though.
Bellini had broken his heart in two, then shattered the rest of it, and it had never truly repaired itself. It was ridiculous, he told himself with frustration and not a little pain. It had been many years since they had been together. He should be completely over her.
They were childhood best friends and had had a four-year teenage romance.
Then they’d gone their separate ways, a complete, irrevocable split.
So why wasn’t he completely over her?
But Logan knew exactly why. She was his soul mate. How many people met their soul mate in kindergarten when they were playing with blocks? Splattering paint on paper? Running around and playing tag at recess?
Bellini was coming back, apparently for weeks, to run Lady Whiskey’s Bar and Grill. He rarely went to Lady Whiskey’s, as the bar scene was not his scene, and he never went during Christmas because he knew she might be there on one of her infrequent visits, and he knew she wouldn’t want to see him. She was a memory of everything he had lost, and he always felt his chest tightening when he thought of her, so why torture himself over a beer?
Logan closed his eyes. Bellini was…a light. A golden light. Whip-smart. Funny. So funny. Interesting. Loving. Affectionate. A book lover and chess lover.
She did have a temper, but it didn’t come barreling out that often—it surfaced only when she was protecting someone or when irritating people ticked her off.
She liked to make lists, she had her own anxieties and worries, and she was deeply intuitive. She had always been there for him, even when his life as a kid had hit the skids so hard, he’d thought he’d fall off. She’d pulled him back, back to wanting to live again.
They’d laughed all the time when they were together. She’d been his best friend.
And they’d had a passion together, an attraction, that was like a bonfire. He knew the passion was because they had been so close for so long. They’d trusted each other. They’d liked each other. They’d known they would be together forever.
Until Bellini did not want forever anymore.
He had recently dropped off a takeout dinner to Whiskey after the operation that had “stolen” her uterus. It had been enough food—from her favorite Thai restaurant—for dinner for three nights.
When he’d arrived at her home, Whiskey had said to him, “Now, there is one of my very favorite people on the planet. Logan Hamilton, I can feel my stitches healing up because ofthe positive, masculine aura you have brought into my home. Sit down and tell me about your whole life.”
He sat beside her bed, and they talked and had dinner together. They’d always been close, and when he’d returned to Montana four years ago after being on the East Coast and abroad, they’d gone right back to their easy friendship.
But Logan was always careful, and so was Whiskey.
He didn’t ask about Bellini.
Whiskey offered very little.
He knew it was because Whiskey was protecting her daughter’s privacy, and he understood. He didn’t want to pry. But years ago, when she’d told him, kindly, slowly, a hand on his arm, that Bellini was getting married, he’d thought the world had fallen apart. He’d actually had to stand up so he wouldn’t pass out.
“I’m sorry, Logan,” she’d said, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re like a son to me, you know that, and I wanted to tell you before someone else did.”
He nodded. He appreciated that. “Thank you, Whiskey.”
Whiskey had a superstar personality at the bar, a “work” personality, but in reality, she was a private person, thoughtful and understanding, a knitter and a baker, a Scrabble player and a reader, and she was loyal to all those she loved.
