His expression shifts. “A cleanse?”
“Mm-hmm.” I pick up the diary and make a show of flipping through it. “This is filled with old stories. She thought I should read them.”
Logan takes a closer look at my face. “That must be hard.”
I try to wave it off. “It’s fine.”
But he keeps looking at me steadily until I say, “Okay, fine. It sucks. But the thing is—it’s having a secondary benefit of helping with my writer’s block.”
“Sounds like it’s important then.” He gestures to the diary. “Would it help to have a friend there when you read them?”
I startle. “I don’t know.”
“I know everything already,” he says. “You can’t surprise me.”
“You’re such a guy.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t knoweverything. You don’t know what was going on in my head during those events.”
“Do you want to tell me?” he asks seriously. “I’m a good listener.”
“I don’t know. It feels weird.” I scratch at a peeled section of the wooden table. “In other Macey Henwood news, since my writer’s block has lifted, I finally began my novel.”
Logan sits up straighter. “No fucking way.”
I smile. “Yes way. I’m nearly sixty pages into it, actually. I had seventy-five, and then I scratched the entire thing and had to start over, but…”
Logan grabs my hand and swings me off the table into an impromptu dance.
I close my eyes and resist wrapping my arms around his back and burying my face in his neck until all the pain of what’s actually happening between us disappears.
Logan makes sure he maintains an appropriate body-length between us as he moves us in a slow two-step around the table. “I’m so proud of you.” He grins at me. “My kick-ass writer friend.”
I’m going to kiss him if he keeps sweet talking me like this. I’m going to run my hands over his chest and down his back and over his perfect ass. I’m going to stick my tongue in his mouth and never want to stop.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shit, Macey, stop. Stop. Stop.
Desperate for something to do with my hands, and my mouth, and especially my tongue, I step out of our dance and sit back down on the table. I wildly grab my diary and open it to the entry I left off on. “You really want to hear where I am in the life story of Macey Henwood?”
Logan’s eyes widen slightly, the only clue to his surprise that I’m letting him in like this. Really, in a way I’ve never let him in before. He sits down next to me, taps my leg lightly, and says, “Go for it. Then, I can say I heard your words before they were published.”
Maybe having Logan listen to a few entrieswillhelp me get through the diary. At this point, I’ll try anything to get past the ache in my chest when I think of him marrying Gigi.
“One entry,” I say.
“Sure.”
“Where’s Gigi?” I ask abruptly.
“She’s staying with her sisters at the Old West Inn. They’re going over wedding plans.”
“Oh. Of course.” I look down at my diary.
Logan taps the open page. “I’m ready when you are.”
I suck in a breath and then start reading out loud.
On my sixteenth birthday, just as it turned July fourth, Mama and Daddy had a big fight at The Cowherd Whiskey, mere hours after they officially remarried.
