I leaned on him for three more seconds, then pulled away. “No, thank you. I mean…” I stuttered about. “Thank you.”
“Is it a ‘no, thank you’ to coming to my place or a ‘yes, thank you’?”
It was ayes, thank you. For sure. “No, thank you.”
He offered me his hand to hold, and I took it as naturally as I’d done for years, since kindergarten.
Logan and I strolled back to the bar and our trucks through the serene downtown, an inflated Frosty the Snowman swaying at the far end of the square. The atmosphere was electric between us, too charged with runaway passion, but then Logan said, “You’re still going to dance with me, right? Even though I made you kiss me under imaginary mistletoe?”
“What?!” I mocked, stopping in my tracks. “There wasn’t any mistletoe? I was sure I saw it. I think it was hanging from a string attached to a star.”
“Now that I think about it, there was some mistletoe attached to a star.”
“That’s why I did what I did when I kissed you back. I wouldn’t have unless there was mistletoe.”
“Of course not. You would have shown admirable restraint. But I think I’ll get mistletoe and put it in my pocket in case the stars aren’t dropping any down on another night.”
I smiled up at him in that cool, crisp Montana air. “Maybe I’ll get some, too.”
All was well between us by the time we got to our trucks, and I was so relieved. Logan was a gentleman, he truly was, and he did not play games. There was no silent treatment, no simmering anger, no resentment, which is what I’d gotten from Martin all the time. No, Logan wanted me to go back to his place with him. But when I said no to stripping off my clothes with reckless abandon and straddling him in his bedroom, he was gracious and didn’t push.
He opened the door to my truck. “See you later, Bellini.” He made a sweeping bow. “M’lady.”
Ah, I remembered when he called me m’lady. We’d read a book together on King Henry the Eighth. “See you later, King Logan the Seventh.”
He smiled at me through the window. I smiled back. Both smiles held so much—regret, passion, longing, confusion…and a secret that could not be shared.
I watched him as he strode around the back of his truck and sighed. Then I tapped my head on the steering wheel in an attempt to bang a little wisdom and rational thoughts into my brain. How on earth was I going to resist that man?
23
Logan
Logan slumped onto his couch ten minutes later and put his head in his hands.
Seeing Bellini was killing him.
She was still the same, yet deeply different. He’d laughed when he’d heard about her dumping lettuce over the head of that ridiculous woman. Bellini was artistic, accepting of others, insightful with endless empathy, and yet, she had a temper. It usually came out only when she thought someone was being treated unfairly or unkindly. He’d seen this happen when they were in school, too, when a kid was being bullied.
Bellini had her own thriving writing career, and yet, she’d come home to run the bar for at least ten hours a day for her mother. She wasn’t perfect—she didn’t try to be. She was simply, always, herself. There was no “show” with Bellini.
When they were together, she loved to talk and hold his hand and discuss all subjects under the sun. Bellini made him feel loved. She made him feel important, special, wanted. She made him feel like he could be someone of worth. She listened to him. She complimented him and made him feel like a man. She was always on his side.
He had always thought they would be married. When he’d announced in second grade for show-and-share that they were going to get married, he’d meant it. That their friends and her cousins had raised their hands quickly to volunteer to be the “ring bear” and the “best friend” and the “good maid” and the “flower boy” was still funny to him.
He’d thought by this time they’d have a bunch of kids running around. He’d thought they’d live in the country, on his mother’s peaceful land, but away from his father. He’d be an architect, she’d write children’s books, and they’d be super busy raising kids and making love by the lake on their property, or in the meadow, or upstairs in their bedroom.
Dreams didn’t come true. He knew that.
At least for him they didn’t. He tried not to be bitter; he did. It was hard, though. He did not think he would marry. He did not think he would have children. It would not be fair to any woman to marry her when he knew he wanted to be with Bellini.
He went to his windows and glared out at the darkened Swan Mountains. There was no answer for him there—none. He stopped, positive he heard bells ringing and the first lines of the song “Jingle Bells.” Maybe someone outside?
For some reason, at that moment, he longed to be on his mother’s land. He wanted to ride a horse, or get on a snowmobile, or hike. He loved that land. It was endlessly beautiful, like Bellini. His mother had loved Bellini. When he’d told her what he’d said during show-and-share, she’d smiled at him—she had not laughed—and said, “I think you and Bellini would make a lovely couple.”
Logan did not want to go to bed alone, so he slept on the couch.
It wasn’t any better.
