Chapter 6
Emma
I invite Logan to come to the Chimney with me tonight. I know it might be weird or uncomfortable with his inability to speak, but I’m also confident we can work it out. Nothing is impossible, and the idea of spending the evening in his company makes me warm and fuzzy.
But Logan shakes his head. “I don’t go to pubs. Too chaotic.”
I’ve already realized his problems go much deeper than his mutism. As soon as he said his mom’s house would be too wild and out of control at Christmas, my heart squeezed painfully. He needs to control his environment to feel safe, and that need is so powerful, it will make him skip Christmas with his family.
That’s why he’s so lonely and stays in all the time.
“Well, how about you come over tomorrow?” I ask, pivoting quickly. “I can bake gingerbread! And we can have mulled wine.”
He gives me a long, penetrating look. It seems a bit disbelieving, a bit amused, and a thrill goes down my spine.
I don’t know what it is about this man, but he’s absolutely magnetic. It’s not just about how handsome he is. I like his casual honesty, easy vulnerability, the wry looks he gives me. It seems strange, but there’s none of the distance that usually accompanies getting to know somebody new.
It's like he knows me. Like we’ve been friends for months.
He nods at length, agreeing to visit me tomorrow. I bite back a squeal of joy, then make the mistake of looking at the clock. It's late afternoon. I spent hours in Logan's house and didn't even notice.
“I have to go,” I say with regret. “But I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow!”
“Have fun tonight.”
The pub meeting starts well enough. I am a bit nervous about meeting Marc, which is why I need Drew and Sasha as a buffer. We broke up a year ago and I haven’t seen him since, but when we finally meet, it’s not awkward at all. I don't feel any attraction or tension. Things are truly over with Marc, and we can hang out as friends.
Or so I think.
When we’re alone for the first time that night, Marc sits closer and puts his hand on my thigh under the table. I gently push him away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a bit offended, a bit curious. “You aren’t seeing anyone new, are you?”
A pair of piercing blue eyes flashes in my mind’s eye. I shake my head.
“I’m single, but that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with you,” I say with a shrug.
“Come on, we were good together.” His lips widen in a charming grin.
It fails to make me feel anything other than discomfort. That smile used to rock my world, but now, all I feel when I look at Marc is relief that we’re no longer together. He’s not a bad man—that would be unfair to him. He’s good, dependable, and…
And boring. There, I said it. Our sex wasn’t that great, either.
“I’ve moved on,” I say, smiling tightly.
When Sasha comes back from the bathroom and Drew brings another round of drinks to our table, Marc pulls away, but I can tell he isn’t done. The way he studies me, as if trying to come up with a solution to a problem, makes my skin crawl. I smile through my discomfort, but my shoulders are tight, and I’m starting to wonder if I can excuse myself. I probably have to stay another half hour to be polite.
My phone pings with a message.
Logan: How is it going? Is everything okay?
I sigh in relief, suddenly feeling better. Somehow, using some kind of sixth sense, Logan knew exactly when to text me.
He trusted me with his secret today, so I decide to be honest.
Emma: I’m trying to think of an excuse to leave early.
Logan: I’m nearby. I’ll drive you home.
A moment later, the pub door opens, cold air blasting in. I look up, right into those clear blue eyes. He doesn’t even have to look around, but finds me at once and strides over. His simple black beanie is dusted with snow.
“Damn. Who’s this?” Sasha asks in an awed whisper.
I get up clumsily, wobbling a bit as I shuffle away from the table.
“Guys, meet Logan. He’s my neighbor and my new best friend,” I say with a laugh, standing by his side.
“I’ll say,” Sasha quips. “You know, I’d be offended to lose the top spot on your friend list, but I’m not mad about this upgrade.”
Beaming, I look up at Logan. I have to crane my neck a bit, and the movement sends me swaying into him. My arm brushes the cold wool of his charcoal coat.
“Whoops. Sorry,” I say, trying to steady myself. “I think I drank too much.”
Smoothly, he puts an arm around me, and the world stops rocking. Sasha gives me a knowing grin, and Marc frowns.
“So, you’re Emma’s neighbor?” he asks Logan, and there is something belligerent in his voice.
“Oh, Logan can’t speak,” I blurt out. “And we should go, right? I don’t want to keep you.”
When I look up for confirmation, he doesn’t look at me. His eyes are trained on Marc, and they are so cold and hostile, I flinch. He doesn’t even have to speak. Anyone who sees his face can tell how he feels about my ex. But why?
“Logan?” I ask.
He looks at me with a curt nod, his features smoothing out. I say my goodbyes, Logan nods at my friends, and we’re off. I came here on foot, knowing I’d be too tipsy to drive. The pub is twenty minutes away from my place, a distance I normally walk without trouble, but I’m really grateful for the ride. The air is so cold, my lungs feel like they are freezing.
The world keeps spinning, and Logan, whose arm is still around my shoulders, helps me keep my balance.
“It’s like magic,” I say with a soft laugh. “You knew exactly when to save me.”
His fingers spasm around my arm and he lets go, opening the passenger door of a sleek, black car. It looks understated, but as soon as I settle down in the super comfy leather seat, I can tell this car was expensive. The engine purrs to life, and my seat warms up.
“So this is what skimming from the top can get you, huh?” I say in a conspiratorial whisper.
He gives me an amused look and a nod, pulling into the lazy evening traffic. He has no music on, and we drive in silence, but it doesn’t bother me. I keep glancing at his profile, marveling at the perfect lines of his nose and mouth. His face is relaxed, almost serene. I fixate on his hands as they hold the steering wheel. His fingers are so long and graceful, palms large. Those beautiful masculine hands seem perfect for stroking, squeezing, caressing, holding down…
I look away, biting the inside of my cheek. It feels creepy to perv over a guy I only met today. I can’t help it, though. He’s like a magnet, pulling me in.
He stops the car in front of my house and gets his phone. A moment later, I get a text.
Logan: Goodnight, Emma. Sleep tight.
My heart stutters, my mouth growing dry. I look up to find his gaze pinned to my face, his expression serious. The car feels suddenly stuffy, like there’s too little air for me to breathe.
I want him to kiss me goodnight. I want to taste that soft, perfect mouth framed by a silver line of a scar. I want to kiss away all the words he cannot say and caress the tongue that was so wounded by the atrocities of war.
He blinks. I remember myself, releasing a shaky breath. I drank a lot tonight and my inhibitions are way down. I’m not thinking straight.
“Goodnight,” I say softly, stumbling out of his car.
My dreams are messy and carnal that night. I tangle in the sheets, long, graceful fingers holding my wrists and squeezing just a touch too tightly, commanding me without words. To stay. To surrender.
A hot, shaky breath slips into my dreams, and I shiver and sigh, dreaming of his mouth and those intense eyes that miss nothing and make my heart stutter. I dream of his lips and tongue, and then I dream of words, silent whispers that are pure meaning yet no sound, because I’ve never heard his voice.
I want to hear it, badly. I want to know what he sounds like.
“Logan,” I whisper, arching my back in the hot bed.
Something crashes, and my bedroom door bangs shut. I sit up with a cry, my heart pounding. It’s dark, but the yellowish glow from the outside lets me see well enough. My bathrobe hanging on a hook on the door swings wildly. Someone was here.
I barely stumble out of bed when my front door slams shut. My heart in my throat, I rush downstairs, looking for signs of forced entry. Who was it? Burglars? Stupid pranksters? Did they take anything?
I switch on all the lights and lock the front door, putting on the chain I don’t usually bother with. I check all the rooms, but nothing is gone. When I go back to my bedroom, I notice the web of cracks in the mirrored wardrobe door.
That’s from the crash I heard before they ran away.
Shaken, I sit on my bed and wonder what to do. I don’t want to be alone right now, but I have no idea whom to call. None of my friends live super close, and besides, I don’t want to drag them out of bed in the middle of the night. I consider calling the police, but what for? Nothing was stolen and whoever was here is long gone.
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling lonelier than I felt in ages. That’s when I notice my phone screen light up on my bedside table.
Logan: It’s 3 a.m. Why are your lights on?
I release a shaky breath of relief. My fingers tremble too badly to type, so I call him.
“Somebody was here,” I say when the call connects. “They were in my bedroom. I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”
My voice sounds tremulous to my ears, so weak and fragile. I laugh shakily, realizing that I’m waiting for a reply that won’t come.
“I’m okay, though,” I add after a moment, reassuring both him and myself. “I probably won’t sleep tonight, but I don’t think whoever it was will be back. They ran away when I woke up. I… I don’t think they wanted to hurt me. I don’t know. It’s weird. Anyway, thank you for checking on me. Please, don’t lose sleep because of this.”
The call disconnects. A moment later, my doorbell rings. He’s here.