Chapter 7
Penelope
Then…
Logan and I lie at the edge of the sacred forest, in a meadow where vivid orange, pale pink, and white wildflowers halo our bodies. The scent of dried grass and his woodsy essence fill my nose when I cross my arms behind my head, absently tapping my feet together.
It’s been a grueling day, working the horses and running errands for Mrs. Haldé in town, but as the sun lowers in the sky, we bask in the late afternoon rays while I map out the details of Augustine’s age-old celebration.
“So, T’slasta… It’s like a fire festival or something?” Logan asks, mirroring me by crossing his hands behind his head.
His elbow touches mine, making me laugh when he nudges it.
“Lah-stah,” I correct his pronunciation. “And yeah, there’s a huge bonfire, but it’s a pretty big deal to the locals around here. Drinking, dancing, and celebrating life. Me and my cousins usually sneak a bottle of liquor from the house and stash it in those bushes over there.”
“Hardcore,” he teases, lazily following the tip of my finger across the meadow.
“You’re gonna love it, I swear.” He wraps his pinky around the one I extend to him, and a tiny trickle of awareness flicks through the connection.
I expect him to let go.
I blush when he doesn’t.
“Oh, and there’s this dance between the singles in town that’s seriously, ugh, so magical. The wine is terrible, so don’t drink it unless you want to puke for a week straight. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure we have something from Dad’s liquor cabinet to get us through the night.”
I sigh thoughtfully, recounting memories I’ve made over all my summers spent here, and he closes his eyes, listening with a hint of a smile on his full lips.
White, fluffy clouds roll across the sky, one after another, but as much as I wish I could relax, my mind won’t be quiet and neither will my mouth.
“Sorry. I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
“Nah,” he says, exhaling a deep breath with a full-blown grin. “You’re cute when you ramble.”
“Cute,” I repeat, in case he wants to correct himself. In case he forgot, friends don’t call other friends cute. Especially while flashing their dimples.
“I said what I said.”
When I face him fully, tiny prickles pinch the inside of my stomach before head-on colliding with each other.
I’ve always appreciated the way the sun highlights his reddish-brown hair. It wisps around his earlobes, longer than it was a month ago when he and his parents first arrived. In that time, the planes of his face have changed from soft and smooth to sharp and rough—like a boy who’s growing into adulthood.
“Like what you see, sunshine?”
Nibbling my thumbnail to keep from touching him, I ask impulsively, “Are you and your parents going to stay through the summer?”
“We are.” When he looks back at the sky, I anxiously wait for his gaze to return.
I like the way he watches my mouth whenever I speak, and the way his face wrinkles with amusement when I let my thoughts get away from me.
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s my dad. He’s got my whole damn future mapped out for me.” His hand falls to his left pec, where he tugs at his shirt. “We had an argument a couple of days ago about my partial scholarship to the University of Michigan. I only applied because he insisted I attend a college with an accredited business program. But he’s made it clear that after I graduate, I’ll be coming to work for him here, on the island.”
I raise up on my elbow, straightening my thin dress when it rises up my thighs. “Well, that’s dumb. You’re eighteen. You can do whatever the hell you want.”
In the time the Andersons have spent on our ranch, I haven’t spoken to Logan’s dad much. The specifics of why they came to stay with us have gotten fuzzy, but when Dad said an old colleague reached out for help, we banded together to offer them sanctuary.
Next thing I knew, Silas, his wife Anna, and Logan were living in the house out on our pasture—and since then, our fathers have been more and more elusive, talking business and spending late nights in Dad’s office.
Logan considers me for a beat before finally answering, “I don’t know what I want, sunshine, and believe me, fighting with him does me no good.”
My heart skips at the nickname he’s given me, but it aches for his tumultuous relationship with Silas. Their arguments have been more and more frequent lately.
“He’s sacrificed so much to get us here. I feel obligated to follow through, and I don’t know… It’s fucked up, but I almost don’t want to go because he wants me to.”
“It’s not fucked up to want to make your own decisions, Logan.”
He turns serious, stewing over whatever thoughts are bouncing inside his head. “My dad’s not a bad guy.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“He just wants what’s best for me.” He pauses, seemingly unsure if he should elaborate.
I’m hard-pressed to agree, though I don’t tell him that.
After their fights, Logan remains silent for days. And the only way to cure his mood is to escape. He’ll beg me to go jumping off cliffs or explore different parts of town, searching for a fix that will numb his mind until he’s back in Silas’s good graces.
And that’s exactly what I do. I show him the magic of Augustine, taking him with me to visit childhood friends and locals who are like family to me. They feed him traditional Topican foods and care for him in ways he’s never known, and in that time, he slowly comes back to me.
“He’s a hardass, but it’s because we came so close to losing everything. He doesn’t want us to live like that again, and I can’t fault him for that. His punishments are only harsh because he wants to see me succeed. Wants me to make him proud.”
The rehearsed manner in which he speaks stirs up a feeling of protectiveness like I’m donning invisible armor, readying myself to fight.
But Logan doesn’t need me to fight his battles. He needs friendship, and I want to be the one he turns to for it.
I slap his arm before hopping to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go for a swim.”
He takes my hand, so small compared to his, and stands to his full six-and-a-half-foot height. That easy grin of his makes me sway when he says, “Only if you can keep up.”
Our gazes lock for half a second before I bolt.
Grass and twigs snap beneath my bare feet, but he’s hot on my heels, brewing an endless supply of adrenaline that pushes my body forward. A balmy breeze glides across my face and arms. It whips through my hair and under my dress as I race into the forest, and I’m smiling like an idiot, high on excitement.
“Slowpoke!” he shouts, shoving me when we break through a line of brush, heading straight for a clearing where an enormous native tree arches over a turquoise pond.
He smiles over his shoulder, gloating in victory when I halt beside him in front of the pond. “Knew you couldn’t beat me.”
With my hands braced on my knees, I try to catch my breath. “Cheater.”
I glance up at the tree house my cousin Marcus has been working on. This is the first summer in years my cousins haven’t visited the ranch, and I miss them like crazy, but it’s kind of nice having Logan to keep me company.
“Better get used to seeing my back because I’m about to outswing you,” he says, nodding at the tire swing hanging from the thickest tree branch.
“All right, then. Let’s do this.” My competitive nature flares to life, and I secretly enjoy that he smiles in challenge, unintimidated.
I shirk off my dress, balling it up before tossing it at his chest.
He catches it easily, holding the garment close with a strange expression on his face.
“What? You’ve never seen a chick in a swimsuit before?”
Logan quickly shifts his gaze to the crystalline water. I watch his Adam’s apple bob before he stutters, “N-no.”
“No?” I ask skeptically.
After setting my dress on the ground, one hand glides through his long, rusty-brown hair. “I mean, yes, of course I have. But not… Never mind.”
“Oh-kay, weirdo.”
Logan’s never avoided looking at me before, and now it feeds a round of ugly thoughts about my figure. Maybe he likes women whose hips aren’t as wide set as mine are?
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the swing.
“Wait, you’re not going in with your shirt on, are you?”
He stops, staring down as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he was still wearing it. “Yeah, I-I don’t like my body.”
I tilt my head as he continues dragging me behind him. “Oh, please. You’ve done nothing but work all summer long. There’s no way you’ve got less than an eight-pack under there.”
Unthinking, I reach for the hem of his shirt and give it a playful tug.
He stops so fast I collide into his back. My hearing fades with the forceful beat of my heart, and my eyes go wide at the iron grip he suddenly has on my wrist.
His nostrils flare, and down to my very core, I’m sick with fear. Not for me, but for whatever’s caused the pain and unfiltered anguish tugging his face into a scowl.
I lower my voice, coaxing him like I would a battered animal. “I didn’t mean to upset you… I was playing, and I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny.”
He blinks, gradually coming back from wherever his mind took him.
“No. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gently smoothing my skin where he grabbed me. “I just don’t want to take my shirt off, if that’s okay with you.”
A thick knot forms in my throat. Of course it’s okay with me, I want to say. But I swipe my dress off the ground and pull it overhead instead. “Eight packs are overrated.”
His brilliant blue eyes soften, and I’m struck by how handsome that timid smile is. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things about my friend that have captured my attention recently.
Like how he never minds when I smack his arm whenever I get excited about something, or that deep belly laugh that shakes his big shoulders. Or the bossy way he grabs my hand, leading me where he wants us to go, exactly as he’s doing now.
My hair is an untamed, curly mess, tickling my cheeks as we approach the swing. The sun steadily heats my skin all the way down to my bones, and I stare at our threaded hands as a similar sensation builds between them.
He releases me, placing one strong and steady hand on my lower back while the other secures the rope. I tighten my grip as I hook my foot on the bottom of the tire.
“Whoever loses is on double horse shit scooping duty tomorrow,” I say, rocking the swing back and forth to build momentum.
He steps back, folding his arms over his chest with a cocky smirk. “You’re on.”
Giving one last hard swing, I launch myself over the water with a squeal that echoes through the trees. I soar through the air, arms thrown up above my head, and crash through a pool of crisp, cool water.
It gobbles me up with a thousand little bubbles, tangling my dress around my limbs, and as soon as my feet hit the mossy bottom, I propel back toward the surface and smooth my wet hair back.
“Not bad, but I can do better,” Logan hollers from the shore, already swinging high.
I tread water, blinking it from my lashes while I watch him swing.
We’re just friends, I remind myself.
But his arms and legs are corded with muscles that bunch with each movement, beckoning an unmistakable tendril of attraction in my belly.
“Whoo!” he shouts before releasing the swing.
Feet first, he crashes through the water a whole foot past where I initially landed.
“Dammit.” I slap the water’s surface. “You only won ‘cause you’re twice my size.”
A pair of hands clamp onto my thighs, and I release another squeal.
His head breaks the surface first, hands gliding up my sides as I’m given a satisfied, masculine smile. He shakes his wet hair like a dog, making my nose wrinkle.
“Jerk.” I shove him, squirming out of his hold, but it’s no use. Logan’s tall enough to touch the bottom, though only barely.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.
When he pins me to his chest, our laughter gradually fades to soft, even breaths.
We’ve spent most of our days together, teasing and pushing each other’s buttons. He’ll sneak attack me in the stables, wrapping an arm around my neck and ruffling my hair, and I’ll get him back by hiding in the chicken coop, scaring the hell out of him.
None of those things ever felt romantic to me. But today feels different.
“You’re not alone in your struggle,” I say. Our wet clothing clings to our upper bodies while tickling my abdomen below the surface. “My parents have sacrificed everything for me and Carrie to live the way we do, too. And no, college isn’t something I care to pursue, but I applied to Stanford because, like you, my dad has expectations. And I guess no matter how much I feel like the black sheep, all I’ve ever wanted is for him to be proud of me. To accept me.”
He squints as if to study me. “Nope. Can’t be. Black is too dark a color for you.”
“Fine. I’m a rainbow sheep, then. Either way, I stick out like a sore thumb.”
Logan hooks my legs around his middle, and I go rigid at the heated contact, enhanced by the water swishing between us.
Amused, he tips his gaze up, his thick lashes coated with water droplets. “I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you, Penelope.”
“You’re just saying that,” I whisper, because I need a logical reason for whatever’s happening right now.
“No, it’s true. And anyone who wants to dull that spark of yours is gonna have to answer to me.”
“So serious.” I lower my voice mockingly, deepening his amusement.
“I am when it matters.”
Logan’s unwavering stare conveys his meaning, loud and clear.
Imatter.
“Promise me something,” I say, tracing little doodles at the base of his neck.
“What’s that?”
“No matter what happens when you leave, I want you to follow your own path. Not the one your dad’s laid out for you.”
Logan holds me in a way that defies the boundaries of friendship, and it makes my body buzz with nerves.
“There’s no sense in making you a promise like that, Pen.”
“Why not?”
“Because, god forbid, if you ever have to live the way we have—scrapping your way through each day, barely keeping your stomach full or the water running—you’d know that I can’t turn my back on him. I owe him too much.”
I stare at the rivulets of water trailing down the angles of his face, wanting to ask him if Silas hurts him, and hating that I suspect he might.
“You know,” I say in that no-filter way of mine, “I guess you’re kind of cute, too.”
He scoffs at that. “Kind of?”
His heart thunders fiercely against my chest when I brush a lock of hair off his brow.
“Have you ever been kissed, Penelope?” Logan rasps.
“Of course I have.” My pulse gallops right along with his, unleashing a string of nervous chatter. “Just because I’m eighteen and still a virgin doesn’t mean I’m a prude. And for the record, I’m not ashamed. Mom told me and Carrie that if we were going to give it to someone, we better make damn sure they were worth it.”
“She’s right.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s a virgin, too, but the question lodges itself in my throat when his gaze lands on my parted mouth.
“Are you any good?” Logan teases, moving half an inch closer. “At kissing, that is.”
I roll my eyes, recounting the kisses I’ve had in my life, equaling to a whopping two. “Um, sh-yeah?”
One brow quirks. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
Whatever reaction he’d expected, questioning him wasn’t it.
Logan’s chest rumbles as he tips his head toward the sky, and I’m painfully aware of all the points where our bare skin touches and every groove his fingerprints make on either side of my spine.
“What’s so funny?” I grumble.
“I was…” He pauses, face flashing amusement that’s highlighted by the sunlight refracting off the water. “That was an awful attempt at trying to get you to kiss me.”
I drop my eyes to his full lips before flicking them back up. “You want me to kiss you?”
I expect him to push me away, maybe even make one of his classic jokes, but Logan does neither. In fact, he holds my stare steadily, assuredly, before whispering, “Yeah, I do.”
Gentle breaths skate across my trembling lips, but I panic. “Okay, I lied… I-I may actually be bad.”
“You won’t be.”
“I’ve only kissed two other people,” I stammer, self-conscious that he’s probably had plenty of practice with this sort of thing. “Well, not people—boys. Not that you’d think it was girls, but maybe you would—”
A deep chuckle cuts me off as he melds a smile to my lips softly, tenderly, and I release a tiny eep beneath them. But when his mouth opens, and he kisses me again, a spark snaps right up my middle, prodding me into action.
“Oh,” I breathe, mimicking his movements cautiously. “This…” I whisper, adding another kiss. “Okay, this is nice.”
Logan’s chest does that rumbly thing again as his eyes close. “Pen.”
“Hmm?”
“Stop talking.”
He hikes my legs higher around his waist, lifting me up and deepening the kiss in a way that makes both my sixth- and tenth-grade pecks seem like kisses from Grandma.
“Wait. What is that?” I ask, feeling a hot, wet swipe along my lower lip.
“My tongue, Penelope,” he adds, playfully exasperated.
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with it?”
“Touch it with yours.”
Brows furrowed, I pull back. “No way. Isn’t that gross?”
Humor pinches his face as he slowly shakes his head. “Let me show you.”
I’m suspicious, but tentatively, I allow him to reclaim me. His tongue snakes out when we part our mouths, brushing mine delicately.
“Oh.” Pinpricks of electricity ride my taste buds before his lips are back, folding over mine in a way that burns from the tips of my ears to my core.
“See?” he whispers. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” I breathe a shaky laugh.
His thumb gently sweeps up and down my back, and he’s adorably proud when he asks, “Would you like me to kiss you like that again?”
My head bobs lightly. “But if it’s okay with you, I want to try this time.”
Water drips from the tips of his hair when he lowers his chin, and I watch his eyelids flutter closed when I capture his lips again. Boldly, I slip my tongue into his mouth, and the groan I’m rewarded turns my insides ablaze.
I lose control of my thoughts, dipping and retreating, lashing the tip of my tongue against his as I eagerly seek more of that fire. My hands scale up his muscled shoulders to the base of his skull, where I bury my fingers into his smooth, wet locks.
His grip turns punishing as he releases a shudder, and I’m hyperaware that the bulge nudging between our bodies is an indicator that Logan likes this. That maybe… Logan likes me.
With one hand splayed over my cheek, he softens the kiss before pressing his forehead to mine. “Not bad,” he croaks, drawing in air like he’s starving for it. “Not bad at all.”
I don’t know why his admiration matters so much, but I tuck the praise of a job well done into a tiny pocket on the outside of my heart.
We’re grinning from ear to ear when we pull apart, and I know, just as sure as the tide will rise, that I’m going to kiss him again.
In fact, I’m going to kiss him until I’m better at it than he is. I’ll be so damn good at kissing by the end of this summer that he’ll wish he could stay with me, no matter how useless a wish like that will be.