“That appears to be true.” I tilted my head up for some cooling snowflakes.
He laughed. “That’s cute.”
“Cute? I should not be blushing anymore.”
“Bring your blush to the hot spring. The stars will be incredible. Clear night. Not that cold. A little snow. I have dinner for you. And dessert. Chocolate mousse.”
“I love chocolate mousse, but I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“I don’t either.”
Oh, good gracious, and holy moly, and bad words, I thought. I couldn’t go to the hot spring with Logan without our swimsuits!
That would be too tempting.
We would be near naked, and wet, in that hot spring, the constellations twinkling above, the moon calling our names…
Why start something with him? Why be alone?
Why break my own heart again?
Why break his?
“Sounds fun,” I heard myself saying. “Yes.”
“Let’s go.” He held out his hand, and I grabbed it.
The road was dark, but the full moon’s rays created a path. Not many people knew about the hot spring. It was on Cal andLilly Otumbai’s property, and you had to be invited to go, or you had to sneak in. The Otumbais were friends with my mom and had said we could go anytime.
The hot spring was private, surrounded by towering pine and fir trees, and almost a perfect oval, bubbling and utterly tranquil. It was fed upstream by a waterfall. An owl hooted as we arrived, then flew off. We flipped off our shoes, sat on the bank, and stuck our feet in the relaxing, slow flowing warmth.
We’d chatted all the way out in his truck, and it was like we’d been chatting forever, with no years-long break. I ate the dinner Logan thoughtfully brought me—pasta and hot bread, and the mousse—and we talked about his work and what he was designing and building, and I asked him what he liked best about his job.
We talked about my Roxy Belle books. He had many questions for me about how I thought up the plots. I told him I didn’t know what to write next, my mind was too frazzled, but I was stressed about this blankness in terms of what to write, so we thought of a bunch of ideas, and for the first time, I didn’t feel anxious about the next Roxy Belle book. I could see the stories we talked about running through my head like mini movies.
We talked about my pink and white cottage in Oregon and my cats, and we talked about people we both knew from school and town. It felt like we had so much to catch up on, which was good, as we could stealthily dance around the deeper topics.
Logan was simmering. Totally hot. Angular features. Hard jaw. Dark eyes. Black hair. Yummy sexy.
“I missed you,” I told him as we kicked the water.
“I missed you, too,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Want to get in?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“What are you wearing?” It was a question I’d asked him so many times in the past that we both laughed. What werewe wearing to the school dances…the first day of school…graduation…Field Day…Halloween…parties…
“I’m wearing my underwear,” he said. “I’m going to be appropriately modest. I don’t want to offend the fair lady in front of me. I don’t want to confuse her. But I am not getting in that pool in jeans.”
“I’m glad I wore underwear that is not ripped.”
“Congratulations, Bellini. This is excellent news. I feared seeing your ripped underwear. It’s been keeping me up at night.”
“Quite proud of myself.”
“You should be.”
