Chapter 20
Rilla
“Do you want some?”
Logan looks pointedly at the fork full of syrup drenched pancakes I’m holding out to him. “I’m good, thanks.”
I shrug, stuffing it in my mouth. “Shoot yer shelf.”
As we sit in the quaint diner, a shaft of sunlight pierces through the window, casting a warm glow upon the table between us. The beautiful thing about this type of eating establishment is that you only have to wait three to eight minutes from the time you order your food until they place it in front of you. Today is no different. I only had to make awkward small talk with Logan for five minutes before I was given the perfect excuse to stop talking.
He hasn’t touched the omelet in front of him. I’m beginning to think he only ordered because I asked for The Great Stack Attack with a side of bacon. It certainly lives up to its name: eight discs of cloud-like pancakes smothered in a lake of syrup and dusted with powdered sugar.
“Not a pancake fan?” I ask when I note his dubious expression.
“I can’t remember the last time I ate them. I make them for Travis and Anna sometimes, though.” His expression softens when he says their names.
“What are they like?” Not only am I desperate to talk about something other than whatever the hell is going on between us, I’m genuinely curious.
“They’re good kids. Polar opposites of one another. Travis has always been the curious type. He needs to understand how everything around him works. When he was four, my sister-in-law came into the kitchen after putting Anna down for a nap to find him sitting on the counter, disassembling the coffee maker.”
“He sounds like a handful.”
“He can be. He’s grown up a lot since then, particularly since my brother passed. He’s got a quick wit that can be devastating though.”
“And Anna?”
“Anna is a sweetheart. Very creative. Falls in love with every animal she meets. She’s generous and kind; she gets that from her mom’s side of the family.”
I don’t know about that, I think to myself. I happened to find Logan to be quite generous in my bedroom last night. My blood surges at the memory and I hope my thoughts aren’t written all over my face.
“But they’re great kids, in my very biased opinion,” he continues. “I think you’ll really like them.” The implication that I’m going to meet them like it’s a foregone conclusion hangs heavy in the air. He clears his throat. “They share your love of pancakes.”
“Of course they do. They’re basically the perfect food.” I cleanse my palate with a drink of black coffee before I start loading another fork full. “You can eat them at any time of the day and they go with everything. Did you know pancakes originated in ancient Greece? One of the reasons I love this diner so much is because they use real maple syrup whereas most places use table syrup. Did you know Canada produces 85% of the world’s maple syrup?”
Once I start babbling, I find it very hard to stop. I take another drink from the standard white mug used in every diner across America.
“How are you feeling?”
The question catches me off guard and I almost do a spit take. How am I feeling?
How am I feeling? Uncomfortable because of this conversation and a bit sore from when you attempted to split me in half last night with your penis. Thanks for asking.
“Good! I feel good.” I don’t. “I slept really well.” I tossed and turned all night. “These pancakes are delicious.” I can’t taste anything but my own nervous energy, which for some unknown reason tastes like burnt plastic. “How are you?”
“I slept terribly,” he admits, rubbing a hand over his face.
Why does he have to be so honest? “Why do you think that is?”
“Three possible reasons come to mind. One, I was nervous about the ‘what are we?’ conversation, that you have thus far dodged spectacularly.” He smirks at me and continues to count on his fingers. “Two, my heart rate was more elevated than usual due to our late night cardio session. And three, I was excited to see you again.”
If this were a classic cartoon, my eyes would turn into big hearts and my actual heart would be comically pounding outside my chest for all to see.
Be brave, Rilla.
“What do you want, Logan?”
“That’s a very broad question with a lot of variables to consider,” he answers without missing a beat. God, he’s gorgeous when he smiles.
I push my plate away and lean forward, my hands resting in front of me on the table. “Alright. What do you want with me?”
His cheeky grin slips and he looks hesitant. Almost boyish. He stares into his coffee cup, like he’s reading tea leaves and hoping for a positive outcome.
“I like you, Rilla. I think about you all the time. I really enjoy spending time with you. Much more than most people. I want to date you. If that’s not something you’re interested in, I’ll respect and accept your decision. But that’s where I’m at. That is what I want from you.”
I’m not sure if anyone has ever given me such a direct and honest answer before and it inspires my own burst of transparency.
“I’ve never really dated anyone. On purpose, anyway. My MO up until this point has been casual sex without feelings. Which are often messy and dumb. So, I may not be very good at it.”
His mouth quirks. “I thought you were good at everything.”
“Let me rephrase; through no fault of my own, this may not work out.”
Logan looks at me. Like really looks at me. Something about the intensity of his gaze always makes me feel like he can see things that other people can’t. Or choose not to. “I think it will.”
My heart stammers in my chest. “And what if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’ll get to say that you were right.”
This may be the first time in my life that I don’t want to be.
“Alright,” I sigh, extending my arms to the side in defeat. “Stop begging. I will date you.”
A grin breaks out on his face and I can hear my pounding heart in my ears. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s your funeral.”
Logan pays for our breakfasts and helps me into my coat, which I guess officially makes this a date. Our second date. Third, if you count last night, which we probably should. Right? I feel like I’m being tested on a subject I’ve never paid any attention to.
As he walks me home, he doesn’t try to hold my hand. I’m both grateful that he’s not smothering me and curious what it would feel like. I haven’t held anyone’s hand since I was a little kid being led around by my parents.
We turn to each other when we reach the apartment and I wonder what happens next.
“I’d like to kiss you now,” he says. His dark eyes flit to my mouth and I lick my lips instinctively.
“I mean, if you have to–”
With his hands on my waist, Logan lifts me up and sets me down on the steps, bringing us much closer to eye level. “Just saving my neck from bending all that way,” he murmurs as he leans towards me.
I don’t even attempt a witty retort, just anxiously await the comforting weight of his lips on mine. There is nothing stiff or awkward about the way Logan kisses me. In fact, he does it with a kind of certainty that vanquishes the doubts and questions that swim through my mind.
His hand cups my face, surprisingly warm fingers brushing against my wind-chilled cheek. I’m not sure how long he kisses me, but it feels like it ends too soon. He pulls away, slightly, before leaning in and stealing another kiss, as though he needed one more taste.
“Maple syrup,” he sighs, the moment his lips rise from mine.
“What?”
“That sweet scent that I could never place on you. It’s maple syrup.” I’m practically a puddle on the sidewalk when he asks, “Can I see you next weekend?”
I want to tell him he can see more of me right now. I’m another kiss away from stripping naked in the cold March air and launching myself at him.
“I’ve got plans on Friday, but I’m free on Saturday.”
“Great. I’m watching Travis and Anna during the day, but if you want to come over in the evening I’ll cook you dinner.”
“Do you own an apron?” The question tumbles from my lips before my brain has the good sense to stop it, but an image of Logan in an apron with his sleeves rolled up has formed in my mind and I need to know.
“Of course I do. I’m not an animal,” he deadpans.
“Did you just make another joke?”
He leans in again, this time giving me a quick kiss on my cheek before starting to back away. “You must be rubbing off on me. I’ll see you Saturday, Rilla.”
“See you.”
I watch him get further and further away from me, imagining all the ways I’d like to rub off on him.