Chapter 17
LOGAN
Frankie stares at me in disbelief.
But she doesn’t let go of my hands, and that’s a fucking win.
“Husband material?” she repeats, putting a question emphasis on it.
“I didn’t track you down to break up with you.”
“We aren’t together.”
“We’re married. That’s as together as it gets.”
“You live in Buffalo.”
“And Minneapolis, and the north shore, and this summer, I’ll live in LA.”
“No.”
“Why not? I’ll come here for the off-season. We can get to know each other.”
She laughs. A little burst of incredulity. “I’m starting my residency this summer.”
“That sounds hard. Maybe you might like having a husband who can have dinner waiting for you when you get home from the hospital?”
“We don’t know each other. You let me think you were a travelling businessman.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
Her eyes flare with a little spark of outrage. “I made fun of you for getting an athletic scholarship to university.”
I grin. “Did you? I don’t remember that part.”
That spark sizzles as she starts to process what happened on New Year’s Eve from a new perspective. “I told you I lived in Minneapolis! Our fathers played together that year!”
“That’s kind of crazy to think about, right?” I squeeze her fingers. “Do you think we ever met?”
“Logan, he’s—”
“I don’t fucking care about your father. Do you think that when you were a very cute, probably smart beyond your years little girl, you ever ran across a dumb kid on skates?” I grin at the potential memory.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was pretty little.”
“I’ll ask my mom.”
“You can’t—”
“Not now. Later. I’m not going to tell anyone now. Not until you’re ready.” I nod in the direction of the living room, where her roommates are probably eavesdropping. “Are you going to tell your friends?”
“There is nothing to tell them.”
I squeeze her hands. “But there is. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t mean your wedding vows.”
“I don’t remember my wedding vows!” Her cheeks turn pink. “Do you?”
I wince. “I remember everything up to about midnight. And later…I remember the hotel room…I know that we meant everything we said that night, even the parts we don’t remember.”
She stares at me for a long, long beat.
I almost tell her that I love her, but it’s too soon for that. We’re doing this out of order, but we aren’t going to skip any steps. My wife needs to fall in love with me first. I need to earn her, woo her, court her.
“There’s a lot of gaps to fill in still,” I offer, hoping that’s the right thing to say.
She nods, looking relieved.
Okay, well…I can share something that’s relevant.
“Do you want to know why I was drinking in that bar that night?”
She just stares at me. Not exactly a yes.
I keep going anyway. “I was pissed off that I’d been benched the night before. I am not your father’s favorite player right now.”
“What?” Her eyes flare wide and she pulls her hands out of mine, her chest rising and falling faster.
Shit, that wasn’t the right thing to say at all.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s really not. He’s ruthless when he feels wronged.” Hot, raw emotion colors her cheeks.
“That doesn’t scare me. Look at me. Do I look like I’m bothered? You know me, Francesca. You know I’m fearless.” I soften my voice. “I’m still the same guy from New Year’s Eve.”
She shakes her head. “Are you? Who is that guy? Why do you think I know him? You didn’t tell me that you were a hockey player.” Her voice shakes. “You actively hid that from me.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
“Weren’t we both hiding?” I ask as gently as I can manage. “We both wanted an escape.”
It’s not gentle enough. Her mouth tightens up into a stubborn little set. “And that’s what it should have stayed. You really should go. I’m sorry you came all this way, but we should leave what happens next to lawyers.”
I don’t think lawyers can help me convince her to give me a chance.
Time is of the fucking essence. “Let me help you make dinner first. Give me ten minutes to talk here. Twenty would be great. I’ll beg for thirty if there’s a chance you’ll give me that.”
She stares at me.
I stare back.
So I sink to my knees. Not tall now. Humble and small at her feet. “Please, Frankie.”
“Get up.” Her lower lip wobbles. “Get up.”
“Only if we can keep talking.”
I just want to wrap her in my arms and promise her it’s going to be okay.
Fucking hell.
“I’m making one pot pasta. It’s as basic as you can get.” Every word is uttered like a challenge.
I like a challenge.
“Delicious,” I say.
“It’s liable to send you into a carb coma.”
I smile. “Amazing.”
“Get up,” she whispers.
Slowly, I climb to my feet again.
Her gaze softens as I straighten up. And in that moment, even though I know we do need to talk, I want to talk about so much, I see another opening.
“Come here,” I say gruffly, pulling her into my arms and picking her up, setting her on the kitchen counter so we’re eye to eye.
“I thought you wanted to talk,” she whispers, her breath hitching as I fit her taut little body right up against mine.
“I do. We will. But I think you might need a reminder of what you liked about me on New Year’s Eve.”
Her gaze drops, reluctantly but not unwillingly, to my mouth. “A kiss doesn’t make everything else go away.”
Even reluctant, the way she says kiss is heady.
I ghost my lips against hers. “I know. But it might help put the rest of it all in context.”
“What context is—”
I cut her off with my tongue, hungrily re-claiming my wife after three long days of not knowing why she ran out on me.
And after a shocked little beat, she kisses me back.
Not unwilling at all.
This is how I wanted to kiss her that morning.
It’s how I want to kiss her every morning, and every evening.
I want a lifetime of her needy little groans as she gives in, letting me kiss her despite her reservations, because it feels right, it tastes right, and nothing else matters.