Chapter 1
Dani
I’ve seen some things in my life: twelve-hour depositions, L.A. traffic in the rain, and my dad’s face when I told him I was going into public defense instead of corporate law.
But none of that compares to watching a six-foot-something, Marine Corps Veteran, lose a battle with a sparkly pink hairbrush.
Logan Carter stood in the middle of my best friend’s wedding reception, bracing himself like he expected incoming fire. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up, tie hanging loose, jaw set as he tried and failed to coax his daughter’s loose blonde waves into something that might pass for a bun.
“Stop pulling!” the little girl barked, hands on her hips.
“I ain’t pullin’,” he said through gritted teeth, his southern drawl slow and unbothered even as the hairbrush caught again. “I’m trying to untie it.”
“Youtiedmy hair?”
He froze mid-motion. “Apparently.”
Then the brush jerked, she yelped, and I swear half of the wedding guests flinched.
I shouldn’t have laughed.
But I did, loudly.
Logan’s head snapped up, his green eyes narrowing beneath dark brows. His hand, still holding the brush, hovered in the air a moment before he dropped it.
There was a hint of irritation, but in the quick dart of his eyes and the subtle shift of his stance, I caught a flicker of embarrassment.
The little girl turned to me with a huff. “See? He doesn’t knowgirl hair.”
“That much is obvious,” I said, stepping closer. “May I?”
Logan was a good looking man, even though it was clear he had no intention on trying to garner attention. His eyes were a mossy green and his dark brown hair was just long enough to curl slightly at the ends. He had a ruggedness about him; from his tall stature and broad shoulders down to his forearms that were muscular and marked by old scars.
“You good with hair?” he asked, that low Southern rumble catching on the edge of his words as his assessed me.
“Depends,” I said, setting down my champagne flute before turning to the little girl standing at his side. “You want ballerina chic or dance floor princess?”
The girl gasped. “Dance floor princess! Daddy, that one!”
Logan sighed, clearly defeated.
“Well, let’s do it!” I said, crouching down beside her.
Her hair was soft and springy beneath my fingers, still a little sticky with frosting from the wedding cake. I worked through the tangles slowly, careful not to pull, and she let out a tiny sigh of relief.
“I’m Harper,” she announced. “I’m six. Daddy can’t braid. Or dance. But he makes good hamburgers and kills spiders.”
“Well, that’s a solid resume,” I said. “And you, Harper, are about to have the best braid this wedding’s ever seen.”
Logan’s voice scraped dry as sandpaper above me. “She doesn’t need encouragement.”
“She doesn’t need it,” I said sweetly. “Shecommandsit.”
Harper grinned at that.
Now up close, I noticed the faint gray at his temples, the tired shadows beneath his eyes, and something quieter in him. There was a story behind those eyes, something unspoken and heavy. His jaw kept tightening every time someone walked behind him, like he was bracing for impact. I caught a faint scar ran just below his right eye, and a glimpse of a tattoo on his arm before he tugged his sleeve lower. Although I knew very little about him, I had known that he’d served overseas with my best friend’s husband in the Marine Corps. We’d also both just so happened to be attending this wedding.
“There,” I said, brushing off my knees. “One beautiful ballerina braid with extra sparkle.”
