If Forever Comes (Take This Regret #2)(45)
Author: A.L. Jackson

He placed a warm hand on the small of my back as he guided me, bringing us out into a short hall. “To the left,” he instructed, prodding me forward with the heat of his hand.

A sharp breath left me. I wasn’t sure I liked it.

I hurried ahead.

He dropped his hand and began flipping on lights as we headed toward the front of his house. We stepped into the family room and he wove around to the far wall to flip on the light.

His home was much like mine, modest, the tiny rooms stuffed with so many mementos that it was cluttered in the most comfortable way.

I’d been here several times, dropping Lizzie off or picking her up, and of course I’d been inside during the barbeque last weekend. But being here, alone with him, it felt entirely different. Claustrophobic. Confined.

From where he stood on the other side of the couch, he smiled at me. “It’s quiet in here without the girls running around, isn’t it?”

I guess maybe he felt it, too.

“Yeah,” I said. Too quiet.

I fixed a plaintive smile on him, not really knowing what I was doing here, wondering why I stayed.

God, I was so messed up. Wrecked. I realized it a long time ago as I’d been lost in my misery. As my mind had begun to clear, I’d accepted it. Maybe even understood it.

My eyes narrowed as I studied Logan from across the room, and I wondered if he saw it in me. Did he know how broken I was? Did he know I was a mess? That most mornings, I could barely get out of bed?

Did he know I ached for a little girl I would never again hold? Did he know she haunted me? Did he know I’d never let her go?

What was he after? A fast fix? A f**k? A vulnerable woman who lacked common sense because she was blinded by pain?

Maybe I could give him that.

Maybe for a few minutes, it would cover it, the hurt and the sorrow and the cruelty of this world.

Or did he see something different in me? A companion. Someone who understood. A parent with similar circumstances, someone who was alone, one who was spinning away her days until something finally made sense.

Would it ever?

Because nothing made sense now. Not being here. Not looking at him. Not the confusion wreaking havoc on my emotions.

Maybe the most important question was the one that burned bright, the one that nagged, the one that promised Christian could never be scraped from my consciousness. No blade was sharp enough. No cut could ever go deep enough.

Did Logan know he could never compare?

Standing here, in his house, watching him from across the span of this tiny room, this nonchalant man with the insipid smile, I knew. I knew the mark Christian had made. It was profound. Permanent.

And it ached.

Logan tipped his head toward the kitchen archway. “I’d better check on the sauce. I’m making spaghetti, if that’s okay?”

Delirious laughter threatened, but I bit it back, held it in. Of course he was. The past seemed to be mocking me. Maybe such a simple dinner was common, but it didn’t matter. It still belonged to Christian and me. How many times had we stood in my tiny kitchen after we had reconciled, Christian’s arms wrapped around my expanding waist, his face buried in my hair as he sought out my neck, kissing me there. I could almost hear his voice in my ear. Are you making my favorite? Smells so good, baby. You spoil me. Let me finish.

I drew in a staggered breath.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I forced out.

Concern deepened the lines on Logan’s face. He cocked his head. “You sure? Because if you don’t like spaghetti, I can dump it and start over. Better yet, we could go out to dinner.”

I realized then how clueless he was. He didn’t know me. The man had no idea what hurt me and what touched me. What would turn me on and what would shut me down.

I shook a little.

Was that what I wanted?

To start fresh?

To leave behind all the memories that would forever haunt me? Did I want to forget the ones that had meant most to me in favor of shunning the hurt?

It seemed the only option, because I didn’t know how else to stand up under the pain.

A soft sound sifted from me, and I shook my head. “No, honestly, I love spaghetti. It’s one of my favorites.”

His concern washed to confusion. “All right, then.” He turned and passed through the archway.

I followed him into his kitchen. It was small, but updated. The black granite countertops gleamed with specks of silver, black appliances to match, the dark wood cabinets warm.

I tried to relax within it. It was one of the coziest kitchens I’d ever been in, a lot like those we’d seen in the homes Christian and I had been looking to buy.

Logan went straight for the large skillet simmering on the stove. He lifted the lid. Steam curled as it rose, and he leaned over it to take in the aroma.

“Mmm…smells good.” He opened a drawer beside him, rustled around inside, and produced a spoon. He dipped it into the thick, red sauce. “Here…taste.”

He held it out for me, an offering.

Cautiously I approached, this timorous edge to my movements. My lips parted as I leaned forward to accept the spoon. He cupped his hand under it as he lifted it to my mouth and slipped it inside.

It was hot, burned my tongue, the savory sauce strong. I swallowed and pulled away, our faces too close as eager green eyes studied me. “It’s delicious,” I mumbled.

His brow shot up. “Yeah?”

“Honest.”

He smiled and raked his teeth on his bottom lip. Then he laughed, the sound cocky and sure, breaking the band of tension that had stretched us tight.

“Well, that’s a damn good thing, Liz, because it’s my mom’s special recipe. Not liking my momma’s food is a deal breaker.”

I shook my head, looked at my feet as I laughed away my discomfort, forcing myself to relax. I cautioned a glance up at him beneath the heavy drop of bangs that had fallen across my forehead. “Deal breaker, huh? And just what kind of deal am I agreeing to?”

He chuckled and scratched at the fine stubble on his chin. “Well, I guess that depends on how much you can handle.”

Everything slowed, that thick cord of tension making a resurgence, sucking the air from this little room.

I stepped back, and he turned his head down and to the side, his hands on his hips. He grinned when he looked back up, quick to change the subject.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

He busied himself searching through the small wine rack tucked at the end of the counter, pulled a bottle out and held it up. “Red okay?”

I forced myself into a detached demeanor, told myself again that I had to try. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”