“Off,” I instruct, surprised by my own directness.
Logan does as I say. As he pulls the shirt over his head, I’m reminded of how strong he is. How solid.
I lift my arms. Without further instruction, Logan tugs off my long-sleeve shirt. He does the same with my tank underneath. I push him back against the vintage car. He tucks one finger into the waistband of my pants and pulls me to him so he can undo my button. He’s kissing me as he does this, and I mirror every single thing he does. Unbutton, unzip.
I shimmy out of my pants as he kicks his off. His eyes take in every inch of me while I do the same to him.
He reaches around to the door handle, pulling it open. I slide into the backseat, moving myself backward. Logan crawls in overme, resting his elbows on either side of my head, pressing our hearts together.
I part his lips with my tongue and kiss him like he’s the best thing.
Because he is. He’s the very best thing.
Logan drops a trail of kisses from my forehead to my nose to my lips to my chin. He makes his way down my neck and collarbones, his breath hot against my chest.
“Holy shit, we won the lottery,” I whisper, the full impact of our win just now hitting me.
He grunts. “Yeah.”
I grip his hair as he draws a line down my stomach with his tongue. I try to pull him back to me to give him kisses. To express everything that’s pouring out of me. He shakes his head.
“No more giving. No more fixing. Now you get to take,” he says as we shed the last of our clothing.
So I do.
For the rest of the evening, I manage to take while still giving just enough back. I can’t help it. What we do, it’s the opposite of mind-numbing. Mind-blowing isn’t quite what I’d call it, either. How we finally get to explore this tension and how gentle yet commanding he is, how he unravels me from my very core… it’s mind-melting.
Logan says he loves me. I say it in return.
I feel elated. I feel safe. I feel loved.
And without needing a fortune teller’s confirmation, I know I’m going to feel this way again and again and again in the future.
Chapter 25
LOGAN
On day one of dress rehearsals, one week out from opening night, Richie figures out the star drop problem. A new issue pops up: A full moon backdrop was never painted. That’s how it’s been for the past few days. We take one step forward and two steps back. We rebuild the dock’s legs, but the new corner snags on the curtain. The canoe now glides out to center stage, but it’s wobbly on its track, making the actors, who are now rehearsing in full hair and makeup, nervous.
What’s making me nervous is that Mrs. Walker is here for today’s rehearsal. Her presence brings an entirely new energy to the space. And that’s on top of the questionable energy An-Ming called out.
Since An-Ming provided her recommendations for bringing more balance into the theater, I organized everything from top to bottom over the weekend. I did manage to get clearance for a few plants, but it was anoto the fish tank.
During one of our breaks, I head out to the woodshop we’ve set up on the sidewalk outside the theater. I clear my head with fresh air and a personal project that takes me out of the world ofWindfall. It feels good working with my chop saw and building something again with my hands, even for just thirty minutes. Maybe I should’ve never stopped being a carpenter.
“Logan! Are you avoiding me?” Mrs. Walker asks over the buzz of my saw.
She’s bundled up in an oversize wool jacket, her shoulder-length, highlighted blond hair styled in its usual way.
I cut the power and remove my goggles. “Impossible. You know where I live.”
Mrs. Walker smirks. “It’s true. I’m unavoidable.” She checks the time on her gold watch. “Got time for a break? I need to get my joints moving.”
“Of course,” I say, holding out my arm for her to link hers through for stability.
“It’s nice to see my creations getting some wear,” she says, motioning toward my tie-dye shirt.
“They’re perfectly good clothes,” I say. “I’ve worn them for almost every show I’ve worked on.” I always thought they were lucky, but now I don’t know what they are.
