Chapter 16
Rilla
“Are you cold?”
After that kiss? I may never be cold ever again.
It’s a chilly night but I embrace the bite of the air, welcoming its cooling effect into my overheated flesh. From the moment his lips touched mine, I was on fire. Consumed by a kind of heat I’d never experienced before.
I’m no wallflower. I’ve kissed my fair share of guys; probably more than my fair share. Hell, I’ve kissed a few girls. And they were all fine. Some of them were even great. But they always felt like a warm up. The pregame handshake before the main event.
Kissing Logan had main event energy. Electromagnetic energy that I can still feel in my fingertips more than an hour later.
Not to mention other areas of my body.
“No, I’m fine.” I tucked my hands into the oversized jersey sleeves the moment we stepped outside the arena and so far, my makeshift mittens were doing their job. “I dressed in layers.”
Nice, Rilla. Men love to hear about how many clothes you are wearing.
You know what? Absolutely not. I’m not about to start filtering my speech to tell people what they want to hear. I don’t dress for the male gaze and I refuse to speak for the male ear. I decide to double down.
“It’s a thermal underwear set. They’re designed for hikers and snowboarders. A wool-blend, I think. I could probably climb a mountain right now, if I wanted to.”
He continues to look straight ahead, but I see the corner of his mouth lift. “I have no doubt.”
Even though we arrived separately, Logan offered to walk me home. I’ve tried to quicken my pace so he doesn’t need to take smaller strides, but my efforts have left me a bit winded. At least I think that’s what is causing my breathlessness.
We’ll be at my door in less than ten minutes and I find myself dreading arriving at our destination. I think I like hanging out with Logan. No, I’m sure of it. How did that happen? When did he become something other than a grumpy pain in my ass?
My stomach growls loud enough for him to hear. I’m pretty sure people visiting the Expedition 1 space station heard that.
“You’re still hungry?” The man did watch me eat two hot dogs and a soft pretzel not two hours ago. Not that I was particularly hungry, I just get snacky when I’m riled up.
Tonight was fun, but it was also total and complete agony. It was like being suspended in limbo, which for a person that likes to know where they stand, it may as well be hell. Three hours later and I’m no closer to knowing if this was a date or not.
“I’m always hungry, Logan. I’m basically a Hobbit. I’ve got to get my seven meals a day.”
He gives me that blank look again.
“You know,” I continue, counting on my fingers, “Breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper?”
“Did you just say ‘elevensies?’”
“Logan,” I laugh, looking up at him. “You act like you’ve never read The Lord Of The Rings.”
“I haven’t.”
“What?” I had assumed Logan didn’t get my Middle Earth jokes because he has a terrible sense of humor, not because he didn’t understand them. “You never read them in grade school?”
“I told you. I’ve never been into fantasy novels. They weren’t required reading in school and I never had any desire to pick them up on my own. Truthfully, I meant to watch the movie, but I’ve just never gotten around to it.”
“You haven’t seen any of them?” The Lord Of The Rings movies were a staple of my childhood. I’ve watched the extended editions so many times I can practically recite them.
“I take it that means there’s more than one?”
I can’t. I just can’t.
“You’re killing me, Carmichael. Yes, there are three of them. Each one an award-winning cinematic masterpiece in its own right.”
We reach an intersection and wait for the light to turn green. I shift from foot to foot trying to keep my toes from freezing and deciding that sneakers were a poor choice in this cold.
“Why fantasy?” Logan’s facing me on the sidewalk, his hands in the pockets of his long wool coat.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s obviously your favorite genre. You write it, you read it, and you watch it. I just want to know why you prefer it to stories that take place in the real world.”
I feel my eyebrows inch closer to my hairline underneath my knit hat.
“Have you taken a good look at the real world lately? It’s awful,” I snort.
Why fantasy? I mean, why oxygen? Why gravity? I search his expression for any hint of condescension but only find what looks like genuine curiosity.
“It’s just my favorite,” I say with a shrug. “Why do you like to read…wait, what do you read other than your dinosaur erotica?”
“I still don’t think that exists.”
“I promise you it does, but that’s not the point. What do you read for fun? Instruction manuals?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I enjoy mystery novels. Detective stories, usually. I’ve always enjoyed puzzles and a good whodunnit makes you feel like you’re working the case right along with the protagonist. I like following the clues and trying to reach the right conclusion before the culprit is revealed.”
I picture Logan sitting stiffly in a straight back chair, frowning at a beaten up paperback. A notebook and pen rest within arm’s reach on the table in front of him, ready to record his thoughts and suspicions. The image makes me bite back a grin.
“It’s my favorite novel structure,” he continues. “A crime or some kind of perplexing event occurs. The protagonist takes on the role of solving the mystery. There are rules that must be followed, like each suspect must have a motive and an opportunity for committing the crime. Suspects are interviewed, clues are gathered. All the while, with every new piece of evidence, every twist and turn, the audience is kept in suspense until the satisfying conclusion. There needs to be a balance of stakes and intrigue. It can be beautiful when done properly.”
Neither of us realize that the light has turned green until people start pushing past us to cross the street. When we start walking again, I feel like someone poured lead in my cross-trainers. How does Logan do that? Just say how he feels without fear of judgment, meanwhile I’m dodging questions with evasive maneuvers that rival the best fighter pilots alive.
I operate on the policy that everyone around me is on a need-to-know basis. But why? What would I lose by being more open with my feelings? Maybe the better question is what could I gain?
“I guess I’ve never been much of a rule follower.” I keep my eyes on the pavement ahead of me as I speak. “When I was in preschool, my teacher told my parents that I went out of my way to color outside the lines. And when all the other four-year-olds were drawing boring brown bears and lions, I was making mine green and purple. I was told I had an overactive imagination, but I never understood why that was a bad thing.”
I’m not one who opens up easily and talking to Logan about my childhood feels very personal.
“So fantasy allowed you to put that imagination to work?” he asks when I don’t continue.
It did so much more than that.
“It gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted. There were no rules to follow unless I made them. No boundaries, no limitations. People can travel through space and time, animals can talk to the dead, and trees can see the future. Women can be warriors and children can rule empires. It doesn’t matter how fantastical or unrealistic the idea is: If you can think it, you can make it real on the page.”
“You’re not rejecting reality.” His smile makes my knees weak. “You’re just creating your own.”
I nod. Exactly.
As we turn the final corner and my apartment building comes into view, I realize I’m no closer to understanding what’s happening between us. I need a plan and I need one now.
“I just can’t believe you haven’t seen the holy trinity of fantasy films. It’s unnatural and wrong. We’re having a movie night.”
“A movie night?”
“Yes.” I’m not asking him; I’m telling him. “Movies, comfy clothes, snacks. Possibly a pillow fort. I can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t know a Brandybuck from a Took.”
“So we’re friends?” The deep baritone sends shivers up my spine.
“Of course we are. Best friends, remember?”
“Right.”
“Movie night at my place. Saturday night. We need to right this wrong before it damages our friendship.”
We stop at the steps in front of my building. He looks up at the apartment thoughtfully, like he’s considering my offer and I allow myself the unguarded opportunity to just gape at him. In the soft street lamp light he looks like a young Christopher Plummer. And there are few men in history that compare to Captain Von Trapp.
“Well, we can’t have that,” he says eventually. “Can I bring anything?”
“Just yourself. And some snacks. I’ll get back up snacks because you won’t buy the right ones.”
“I can do that.” His eyes linger on my mouth and I find myself hoping they don’t appear chapped from the cold. He doesn’t close the distance between us. Instead, he takes a step back, saying, “I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“I’ll see you then.” I watch him start to walk away and call out, “Thanks for inviting me tonight. I had fun.”
He turns and smiles, still moving further away from me. “It was my pleasure.”
I think it was mine. I float up the stairs to my apartment, my thoughts and feelings swirling like a stream that has suddenly picked up speed right before it becomes a waterfall. I’m no longer freaked out that this may have been a date, but rocked by the sudden realization that I want it to have been.