Chapter 21
I know I shouldn’t leave my hand there. It’s too strange to have mine under Logan’s, and he might even feel how fast my blood is pumping through my veins. But if I jerk away, I’ll send a weird message.
After a short while, I tap his hand a few times with my free one, like I’m petting a dog who’s put his head on my knee, and then slowly slide my fingers out from under his.
“That means a lot,” I say.
I feel ill at ease with Logan for the first time this evening, unnerved by how aroused I was by his touch. I know he’d probably like an espresso now—he sometimes drank them until midnight without a problem—but I tell him I’m tired and would like to get back to the inn.
“Of course,” he says, and then signals to the waiter for the check. “I’m tired, too, and I want to look over my remarks for tomorrow night before turning in.”
I try my hardest to make the waiter accept my credit card along with Logan’s, but my ex insists on paying the bill, saying it was his idea to come here. As we depart the restaurant, I thank him in the polite tones I might use if I were one of his work colleagues—though not one he’s fucking—and I keep a few feet between us on our walk across the parking lot. We stay quiet on the car ride back. Not the kind of companionable silence from years back but an awkward one, as if I’ve dragged my discomfort from the end of the meal into the car with us.
Does he sense what happened to me back there? I hope this was the first time in his life that he couldn’t read the room.
We turn into the inn parking lot. Before Logan climbs out of the car, his phone pings.
“A text from Halligan,” he announces. It’s the first he’s spoken since we left the restaurant. “He wants to do a call with us at half past noon tomorrow.”
I nod, relieved at the news.
“There’s a small meeting room at the rear of the inn,” he says. “I’ll see if I can reserve it for tomorrow, and then we can put him on speakerphone.”
“Good idea. Though, gosh, by now he’s probably heard I met with Morgan Kroll. I bet he’s really pissed.”
“He’ll get over it.”
Logan pauses at the front door and studies me intently. I pull back ever so slightly, worried that, God forbid, he’s about to offer a comforting hug.
“Are you going to be okay until then?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll probably walk over to campus at some point and peek at the newMuseoffice.”
He smiles. “It’s not quite finished yet, but you’ll get the picture. And I think you’ll be impressed.”
Good ol’ Shelly glances up as we enter the lobby, tells us “Good evening,” and returns to her busywork. If she’s curious about what happened to the third player in our sad little drama, she’s not letting on.
“I think I’ll grab a sparkling water from the bar,” I say to Logan.
“Good night, then,” he says, offering a wan smile.
As soon as the elevator starts to ascend, I take the stairs to my room. I kick off my shoes, peel off my clothes, and after getting into pajamas, I perch on the edge of the bed, hoping to quiet my thoughts.
What I’m not going to do is beat myself up over the twinge of desire I felt at the restaurant.
It says nothing about my love and desire for Bas. Obviously, it was just some kind of muscle memory, triggered—thanks to a stupid decision on my part—by being in such an intimate setting with Logan. Sex, after all, had been a vivid part of our relationship, an almost ever-present erotic hum, even when we were livid with each other and barely speaking.
Of course, not during our last year together. We seldom even kissed through those crushing months. In late summer, when I finally reached out for Logan in bed—when I thought sex might, at the very least, help stave off my desire to die—he had no interest. Or rather, as I soon learned, he had no interest in sex withmeat that time.
And it’s not like I still feel anything for Logan, other than gratitude for having him as my ally this week. If I’m being honest with myself, there’ve been stray moments when I’verecalledmy feelings for him and how much they defined such a huge chunk of my life. But that’s the same as being in an old, ramshackle house and sensing the ghost of someone who died before their time or even against their will.
I just need to be more mindful,I think. That means avoiding dimly lit settings and not getting into conversations with him about stuff like chicken piccata and bistros we once escaped to on frigid nights. This trip is all about Melanie, and that’s the only thing that matters.
I grab my phone and send a quick text to Bas, even though I’m certain he’s sleeping now, trying to fight off his cold.
Hope you feel better by the time you get this. Miss you terribly. xoxo
Though my unsettled state seems to permeate my dreams, I wake feeling resolute—and within minutes I have a solid plan for the morning. As I told Logan, I want to see theMuseoffice, but there are now several things ahead of that on my list.
