“Do you like it?” Logan asked, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “I know it’s no Pierpont or Hilton, but I love it here. Derek and I have been meeting up here every summer for years. Of course, we didn’t make it this year.”
“The hotel looks amazing,” she assured him, smiling. “And Derek is lucky to have a friend like you.” She could only assume that Derek’s reason for missing this summer’s annual get-together was related to his recent problems. It was probably also why Derek was currently crashing at Logan’s house and keeping a low profile.
“We were lucky to have each other growing up, all three of us,” Logan murmured as he turned on his right-turn signal and drove into the parking lot situated behind the hotel. “There were only two constants in my life growing up. Derek and Eunice Withers.”
“Eunice Withers?” Claire’s interest was sparked by the unfamiliar name.
Logan nodded, not looking at her as he guided his car into an empty space and slid the gear into park. “She was a widow who took me in when I was fourteen.” He looked at her finally, sadness in his eyes. “She died eight years ago. Heart failure.”
“I’m sorry.” She took his hand in hers instinctively, understanding without needing to hear him say the words how deeply he’d cared for the woman. He must have been heartbroken when she died.
He nodded again, then pulled his hand away, plastering a smile on his face that didn’t quite seem genuine. “Let’s get our things and check in.”
Claire wasn’t surprised by his withdrawal. Logan wasn’t comfortable with sharing emotions with anyone, ever. All the more reason for her to guard her heart against him. She glanced at the dashboard. “What time does check-in start? It’s only twelve.”
Logan muttered a curse. “I’d forgotten all about that. Check-in starts at one. We’ll just have to catch lunch first. Do you mind?”
She shook her head and her stomach rumbled, as if on cue. “No, and neither does baby. In fact, he or she would be very happy to have lunch.”
He met her gaze, his softening. “God, I still can’t believe we’re having a baby together.”
She looked down at her rounded belly, noticeable even in the loose-fitting pink tank top and matching skirt she wore. “Sometimes I can’t either,” she admitted. It seemed strange in the extreme to be carrying the child of Logan Monroe. If anyone had told her a year ago that she’d be pregnant with his baby now, she would have laughed. Even so, it also seemed right, in an odd way.
She cleared her throat, ending the tentative moment between them. “It’s getting a bit stuffy in here.” It was only September, and not unbearably hot like the summer had been, but still warm enough to heat up the car after a few minutes sans AC.
Logan blinked. “Right. Sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly agitated. “There’s a great café down the street. Should we drive there, or do you want to walk?”
She made a face and pulled open the car door. “After three hours of being trapped in here? Are you kidding me?”
About to close the door when she realized she’d forgotten her purse, Claire bent down to retrieve it. She’d tucked the small but chic straw tote down by her feet in case she’d needed any lip gloss or mints during the drive. Pregnancy, in addition to wreaking havoc on numerous other aspects of her life, had also blessed her with chapped lips and the tendency to get carsick. Thankfully, the mints and the pee breaks had been enough to keep her motion sickness largely at bay.
“Logan,” she began, looking up while she was still bent over in the act of retrieving her purse, “how far away is the…” Her words drifted off as she realized he was staring at her hotly, his gaze riveted on her breasts.
She swallowed, feeling an answering spike of heat in her veins, then looked down to realize the neckline of her shirt was gaping. Logan had an excellent view of the tops of her breasts spilling out of her too-small bra. Her breasts were growing faster than she could hit the lingerie store for replacements. Suddenly mortified, she stood so quickly she whacked her head on the roof of the car.
A moan of embarrassment and pain escaped her as stars swam before her for a dazed moment. “Oh damn.” She pressed a hand to the knot already forming on the back of her head and carefully extracted herself from the car without further incident.
Logan was at her side, wearing a worried expression. “Are you okay, Claire?” He reached around her to probe the swelling lump she’d so stupidly caused. “You don’t have a concussion, do you, sweetheart?”
“No.” She smiled, then winced when he pressed a little harder than she would have liked. “Just a bruised ego and a goose egg.” Stepping away from him, she closed the car door and clutched her purse with both hands. “How about lunch before I do any more damage?”
He frowned, concern still written all over his handsome face. “Are you sure?”
God, the man was so protective of her and the baby it got a bit tiresome at times. You’d think she’d fallen out of a moving car rather than simply bumping her head on a parked one. “It’s a little bump,” she assured him. “Nothing more.”
“All right.” Logan dropped his hand and stepped away from her. “Let’s go get lunch then.”
As she fell into step beside him, it hit Claire harder than the bump she’d taken to the head. Logan Monroe had just called her sweetheart.
The café was every bit as charming and cozy as the rest of the town, Claire decided after she and Logan were seated. Their small round table was tucked into a corner and covered with a checked tablecloth. The floral arrangement nestled in the vase at the table’s center was fresh and beautiful, with delphinium, coneflowers, and lavender. The lavender’s scent teased her nostrils and she inhaled deeply.
“The flowers smell like heaven,” she couldn’t help commenting.
Logan stared at her, his gaze dipping to her lips. “I’ve always thought vanilla smelled like heaven.”
Claire swallowed heavily and looked away from him. French vanilla was her favorite scent. He had noticed. She forced her attention to the walls of the café, anything to take her mind off him. Besides, it wasn’t as though the walls were boring. They were dotted with old black-and-white photographs of the town in its heyday. There was a picture of the hotel, the main street lined with carriages, another of the buildings with a handful of distinguished-looking men posing before it. Yet another captured the townspeople going through their daily lives, women walking along the street in dresses, baskets in hand, men carrying wooden crates.
“I love the photographs,” she murmured, feeling the need to fill in the silence between them. “It’s amazing that the town looks almost exactly the same as it did then.”
