I hesitate. “Yeah. But…”
“But what? Just go change.”
But…I can’t take this dress off without help.
It has no zippers and is one of those irritating gowns that have to be lifted over the head. Oh, why is this happening?
Logan’s watching me. And, like always, he proves to be a Macey Henwood mind-reader. “You need some help?”
“No.” I squeeze my hands around the wet fabric, trying to wring it dry somehow.
“Oh, come on. I know Eloise and Helena Rattles are already fit to be tied that you walked out of the store in that thing. Don’t give them another reason to be mad at you.”
“How do you know I came straight from the store?”
“Besides the fact that you don’t normally walk around town in a God-ugly bridesmaid’s dress?”
I give him a look.
“Ginny texted that you were coming. Like a warning.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood between us, and it’s working. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I’ll be right back,” I say as I grab my gun and head down the hall.
But Logan follows along behind me, and I don’t stop him. When we reach the liquor room that doubles as my office, his gaze stops on the divorce papers on my desk. I watch as he scans the blank line where my signature should be.
And if I’m reading him right, he hides a smile but doesn’t say anything.
I lock my gun safely away in its case. I pour some cat food into the customized “Mr. Bingley” food bowl that Mama ordered for him, and I make sure his kitty bed on top of the corner cabinet is fluffed and ready for him when he wants it.
When I can’t think of any other way to avoid the inevitable, I slowly turn back to Logan, who’s leaning casually against my desk. He’s got one hand in his jeans pocket, and his gaze is on me steadily.
I hurry to break the silence. “Ginny told me the good news. That your daddy finally caved on his ridiculous demands and let you be.”
Logan nods. “Yeah. Pretty surprising, huh?”
“I’d say so.” I smile at him. “I’m happy for you. You know that.”
Our eyes lock. “I know. Thanks.”
With the way the sun hits his face through the window behind my desk, the long white line on his cheek shines almost like a badge of courage.
I’ve always loved Logan’s scar because I know what he went through that day, and I know what he saved by being willing to get it. He saved his soul. That’s what I told him that cold spring in Hill Country when it rained so hard and so long nobody warmed up for days.
“And I’m proud of you for speaking your mind.”
“Appreciate it, Mace.” His eyes are lasers on me now.
I clear my throat.
“Anyway...no peeking. Just…” I reach for the hem of my dress to try and lift the fabric off myself, but the cut is too snug around my torso. “I’ll lift it up to my waist, and then you’ll have to take it from there.”
Logan nods, and I add, “But once you start, don’t stop halfway or else it will get stuck, and that really freaks me out.”
There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, and normally one of us would make a point of calling it out. But not this time. This time, we both freeze at my unplanned sexual connotation and avoid eye contact.
“Don’t worry,” Logan says finally in a strangled tone.
The last time we slept together is coming back to me in hot and heavy flashbacks, and as Logan comes closer, I can smell his cologne. That manly moss scent just about covers up—but not quite—the equally intoxicating aroma of hay and horse and cattle that’s a part of any cowboy.
