Instinctively, my hand flies to my mouth in shock. I reach out and inch open the door, needing to make sure before I swing it all the way.
And then there he is, standing right in front of me, bathed in a small halo of light. My ex-husband. A man I last set eyes on seven years ago.
Chapter 2
The sight of Logan Chase is so utterly improbable that there’s a moment when I wonder if I’ve imagined it. But I know I haven’t. Your imagination needs thoughts or images to spark off, and I almost never allow Logan inside my head anymore.
My next thought: Something truly horrible must have happened, and he’s come all this way to break the news in person and spare me the anguish of hearing it over the phone. But no, it can’t be that, either. Because the only horrible thing Logan could share has already happened—eight Octobers ago.
“Hello, Bree,” he says, offering a cautious smile. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“It’s more that I’m flabbergasted. What—what are you doing here?”
“It’s a fairly long story. Is it okay if I come in?”
I inhale deeply, absorbing his presence, or at least what I can make out from the light cast by the wrought-iron sconces on either side of the door. He’s wearing jeans and a blue V-neck sweater—cashmere, I suppose—under an unzipped lightweight jacket. The tip of a boarding pass pokes out from one of the jacket pockets.
“Of course.” Because what else am I going to say? He’s come for a reason, and I need to hear what in the world it is. Maybe he has health or financial issues he thinks I should know about, or his sister-in-law’s sick again. “You’ve rented a car, I take it?”
“Yeah, and I left it down by the gate. Will I be blocking anyone?”
“No, it’s okay there.”
I open the door even wider and gesture with my hand for him to enter. My pulse is still racing—not from fear anymore but the pure shock of his being here.
He steps inside. Now that he’s in better light, I see that he looks remarkably close to how he did when I last saw him, though his thick brown hair is silvery gray at the temples, and the crease that had begun to form between his blue-green eyes has deepened, like a tiny slice in his forehead. He’s probably a few pounds heavier, too, but it’s barely noticeable.
“Have you driven all the way from Montevideo?”
“No, from the Punta del Este airport. But it was a forty-minute wait at the car rental counter—the guy was apparently on his dinner break—and then I kept getting lost, even with GPS ... Where’s your partner—Sebastian?”
“In BA for a few days.”
He sweeps a hand through his hair and advances into the great room. I can see now that he’s tired, even a little frayed around the edges. But he’s doing his best to be chipper. I wouldn’t expect anything less.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask, and not just to be polite. I need to sit, I realize. The last ten minutes have knocked the wind out of me. “Soda? A beer?”
“I’d love some water right now ... It’s just good to be out of the car. And it’s good to see you, Bree.”
As I lead him through the house, I sense him swiveling his head behind me, checking out the place. I described it briefly on the phone to him just after I’d moved here, and texted a couple of pictures per his request, but I know the house is far more impressive in person.
When we reach the kitchen, I lift my chin toward the table and tell him to have a seat, but he takes a bit more time to look around. Though the room wouldn’t be everyone’s favorite—it’s old-fashioned in style, with wooden beams running along the ceiling, white plasterwalls, and a terra-cotta-tiled floor—Bas wanted something similar to the original kitchen.
“Very impressive,” Logan says, and I can tell from his tone that he means it. “Sebastian did this himself after his uncle died?”
“No, he’s notthathandy, but he provided a lot of input. It’s more Argentine in style than Uruguayan. Spanish Colonial isn’t much of a thing here.”
He slips out of his jacket and finally drops into a chair at the wooden table.
“Have you had anything to eat tonight?” I ask almost instinctively.
Another smile, this one a bit sheepish. “No, unless you count the lovely Aerolíneas Argentinas first-class snack of stale cashews and mineral water.”
“Why don’t I make you a plate,” I say. “There’s some leftover food from dinner.”
So now I’ve both welcomed him insideandinvited him to have a meal. But the past seems too past for me not to be considerate. Besides, Logan being Logan, he’ll find it easier to share with a plate of food in front of him.
“That’d be great, thanks.”
