Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Logan
Sometimes the best things in life happen
when you least expect them,
like falling in love with someone
you never saw coming.
~ Brianna Wiest
“I can’t get her off my mind,” I tell Rhett.
He whimpers.
“I know. I know. I’m pathetic.”
Rhett drops to the ground and covers his eyes with his paws.
The sun has set. I’m eight or nine hours away from facing Olivia at work—as a professional coworker, not as the woman in a blue dress who rocked my world when we danced last night.
“Rhett, come on, buddy.”
He drops his paws to the floor and looks up at me with those expressive eyes of his. Then he rolls onto his back and shows me his belly.
“Okay. You’re making me do this. For the record, I only do this for you.” I let out a deep sigh. “Wanna dance, Rhett?”
He immediately rolls back over and stands on all fours.
I open my phone and put on Rhett’s favorite song, “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga. People think I’m kidding when I say Rhett has a favorite song. When he hears this one, he wiggles and spins in circles. Partway through the song, he usually gets so excited that he stands on his back paws and hops around on two feet.
It helps if I dance with him. So that’s what I do.
After all, it’s just me and Rhett, and I need to do something to get Olivia off my mind.
I turn the music up on my phone a little, and then I send it through my Bluetooth speaker. Rhett and I are dancing around my living room. I’m letting loose. Why not? It’s not like he’s going to whip out a phone, film me, and make a viral TikTok of the moment.
Something about last night makes me hopeful. Not that Olivia gave me reason to hope. Hope is the residue of having her in my arms and realizing what she’s always meant to me. I’m a man who usually knows what he wants. And when I want something, I do what it takes to achieve or earn it. I’ll earn Olivia’s friendship. And then, if she’ll let me, I’ll earn more. I almost can’t allow myself to imagine what I truly hope for with her. So, I throw myself into dancing with Rhett.
I’m doing some version of the sprinkler and Rhett is turning in a circle in front of me. Lady Gaga is singing the lyrics “Just dance.”
I tell Rhett, “Watch out, buddy. You might get sprayed by the sprinkler!”
I turn in a circle with my elbow cocked, my hand behind my neck, and the other arm extended and flapping like it’s spraying water in all directions. I aim my moving arm at Rhett, and he barks and jumps around. I look up in the direction of Rhett’s excitement and Olivia is in my doorway. At first I think she’s a mirage. Her eyes rival my dog’s—bugged out and intent. Then she starts giggling. She covers her mouth to try to suppress her laughter, but then she gives in and cracks up. She’s leaning on the doorframe for support, her flat palm on her belly, laughing uncontrollably.
I smile at her. What else can I do? I’m so busted.
“It’s his favorite song,” I say, as if that’s a reasonable explanation for why I was doing dad dance moves in my living room, alone with my dog.
“I bet … it is …” she says between bursts of laughter.
“Really. It is. Watch this.”
I press the song selection and change it to “September” by Earth, Wind and Fire. I love dancing to this one, but Rhett is not a fan. He stands stock still, staring up at me. I switch again to “Power” by Snap!, a notoriously danceable song. Rhett flops to the ground as if he’s been shot. I look over at Olivia. She’s studying my dog, leaning on my doorframe as if she’s deciding whether to come in or remain safely aloof in the neutral zone of my doorway.
I switch back to “Just Dance . ” Rhett jumps up and starts circling, even standing on his back feet—obviously showing off for Olivia. I strike the pose made famous by Lady Gaga in the music video, one arm is cocked over my head, the other under my chin so my face is framed. I look straight at Olivia through the opening between my arms. She laughs again—at me. I made her laugh . When the beat starts to pick up, I hold her eye contact and pump my arms and legs in unison. Rhett continues to dance around me, executing his own interpretive dance moves.
Olivia loses it. “Who … are you?” she asks between bouts of laughter. “And what did you do with Logan Alexander?”
I stop dancing. “I’m still me. Just … me at home in my own apartment with Rhett. Do you need something? Or …”
I pause, searching for words that won’t chase her off. I like her being here.
“Yes. Actually,” Olivia says, her face sobering a touch. “My apartment is a money pit. Did you ever see that old movie where the tub falls through the ceiling and the stairs collapse and things keep going wrong?”
“I think so. Didn’t they buy a mansion at a steal and then the whole thing fell apart?”
“Yes. That’s the one. And that, apparently, is also my apartment.”
“What happened?” I stop the music.
“I was making a late dinner. Nothing fancy, just microwaving some leftovers. The outlet behind the microwave sort of went ffftz ffftz ffftz and then there were a few sparks, and the microwave stopped working. I tried calling the building super, but no one answered. It is a Sunday evening, so …”
“Do you want me to take a look at it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want you to get hurt. Do you know anything about electricity?”
“I think there’s a positive and negative. And you try not to mix those up.”
Her face looks horrified.
“I’m kidding, Pennington. I know a bit. I used to wire things for fun as a kid. I had a kit for making circuits. Dad taught me basic plumbing and electrical repairs. He always said a real man can fix his own house even if he chooses to hire someone else to do it.”
“Somehow I can’t picture Jacob changing a lightbulb,” she says with a smirk.
I shouldn’t feel so seen and vindicated, but it makes me exceedingly happy that she said that.
“Well, I’m not Jacob.”
“You definitely aren’t.”
I smother my smile and look down at Rhett. “Stay here, buddy. I’ve got to go fix something. We’ll take an intermission from the dance party.”
Rhett toddles over to his bed near the furnace and plops onto it.
“He’s so smart,” Olivia says.
I smile and follow her out my door, through the lounge area to her apartment.
“Your door was open,” she says before letting me into her place. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”
“I probably had the music up too loud.”
“Neighbors these days,” she says with a smile. “So disruptive.”
I step into her apartment, and Olivia shuts the door behind me. She’s wearing sweats, and her hair is up off her face, haphazardly piled on her head with tendrils falling all around the edges. I’m as captivated by her now as I was last night when she entered the reunion in that dress.
I flick the light switch next to the door to check if it’s working. She might have shorted out the whole apartment. The light flickers on, and then there’s a loud zapping sound, followed by a clap, and then we’re in darkness.
Olivia yelps when the lights go out. I instinctively reach for her, my hand finding her elbow.
“I’ve got you,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull her arm out of my gentle grasp.
A trace of grey-yellow light filters in from behind the curtains, casting everything on that side of the room in varied degrees of shadows, but otherwise, it’s a blackout.
“Logan?” Olivia says.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I know that. I just … never mind. Thanks for trying to help.”
“What are you going to do now?” I ask, my hand still loosely holding her arm.
“Nothing. It’s Sunday. Steve—the building manager—isn’t answering. I’ll just … go to bed, I guess. Maybe I can drive to Megan’s or Lynette’s in the morning to get ready.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I think it is. I’m not going to be able to get ready in my trickle shower in the dark.”
I don’t know what a trickle shower is, and something tells me this isn’t the time to find out.
“You could stay at my place,” I offer spontaneously. “I’ll take the couch. My bed is comfortable. I just changed the sheets.”
I’m in marketing, and I’m doing a horrible job selling this option.
“You could sleep at my place and get ready there in the morning,” I tell her. “Whatever you need. Staying here would save you the time of driving across town on a workday in rush hour traffic.”
“Umm.”
She’s quiet after that response. I freeze in place, waiting for her answer, not wanting to push her, but hoping she’ll take me up on my offer.
“Olivia,” I finally say. “At least let me make you dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Didn’t you say you were cooking before the microwave blew?”
“I was just reheating some pasta.”
“I’ll make you pasta.”
She’s quiet again. So I wait.
Then she says, “Okay. Dinner. But then I’ll probably come back here to sleep.”
“That’s fine. Whatever you think is best.”
I turn to walk out the door, groping around the wall and door briefly until my hand connects with the handle. Just before I open the door, there’s the sound of cellophane crinkling, followed by a crunch.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Olivia answers me.
“You do know when people say nothing , it always means something, don’t you?”
“Are you throwing my words back at me?” she asks. There’s a playfulness in her tone that’s not usually directed at me.
“It’s a fact.”
She bends down and picks something up off the floor.
“It’s … a fortune cookie.”
“Another one?” I ask.
“Yeah. Weird, huh?”
“Maybe we kicked it in from the hallway.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
I’m not either, but that’s the least of my preoccupations right now.
Olivia Pennington is coming to my apartment .
And it’s not so she can suffocate me in my sleep.
If you scanned my brain, you’d see this thought and nothing else: Olivia. Olivia. Olivia .
I open the door. When we step into the hallway, Olivia opens the wrapper to the cookie. She pulls the slip of paper from the crushed shards of cookie.
“Want to do the honors?” she asks me.
“You stepped on it. I think it’s your cookie.”
But she holds the fortune out to me, so I take it and read it aloud.
“ When someone offers you help, accept the heart behind the offer .”
“It does not say that,” Olivia says, looking up at me as if I’m joking. “You’re totally making that up.”
I hand her the paper.
She reads it, shaking her head in disbelief.
“These cookies are so strange.”
“And, yet …” I wink at her. “Not bad advice.”
She shakes her head but follows me to my apartment.
This time, when Olivia walks in, she looks around. She’s not focused on Rhett, who popped out of his bed, ran past me, and is profusely wagging his tail as if he’s personally witnessed the second coming of Christ. I hear you, buddy. I’d wag my tail too.
“It’s like she never left,” Olivia says. The words are soft and careful—personal, and not especially meant for my ears.
I answer her with equal tenderness in my voice. “Your gran?”
It’s a statement formed as a question. I remember her term for her grandmother. Obviously, they were close.
“Yeah. Gran.” She looks down at Rhett. “Well, hello there, cutie pie. I’m sorry I interrupted your dance party.” Her voice is light and sweet, full of affection for my dog.
“So … pasta?” I offer. “We have some options. I’ve got fusilli, linguini, and angel hair, I think. And I know how to make an alfredo, a marinara, or I could make an amatriciana since we aren’t going to be kissing.”
What did I just say?
Her eyes meet mine. I want to melt into the floor.
“I’ll probably be kissing this guy, though,” she jokes back, rubbing Rhett between the ears and saving me from myself.
“True, but he’s not picky. Trust me. I think he kissed the furnace at least four times today. I hope you’re not the jealous type.”
“I actually am,” she looks straight at me.
“Well, then, I wouldn’t go kissing Rhett. He has no scruples.”
She giggles. Actually giggles.
“I’m going to sound foolish,” she says. “But what is amatriciana sauce?”
“Not foolish at all. It’s a tomato sauce with onions, garlic, smoked pancetta, and seasonings.”
“Is it hard to make?”
She wants it. I’m going to make her the best pasta she’s ever eaten.
“Same as the others. Relatively easy. I’d love to make it for you.”
Her expression is quizzical. “I’ll help you.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“I could just take a flashlight,” she offers as she stands and follows me to my kitchen. “Or use the one on my phone … and get some cereal, or those leftovers I was going to heat up.”
“Better not to keep opening the fridge right now while the electricity is sketchy. You want to keep all the cold air in there.”
I’m grasping at straws to keep her here. I hope I’m not too transparent.
“Besides,” I say. “All this talk of pasta is making me hungry. I’m going to have to make some either way now.”
I turn and look into her deep brown eyes … which are softer tonight. More welcoming than ever in our shared history.
“Besides,” I say. “You don’t want to miss out on this pasta.”
“Really? It’s that good?” She challenges me, as always.
“It’s not good.” I cock an eyebrow at her. “It’s the best.”