Chapter 19
LOGAN
I can feel the shift in her stubborn little body as she gives in, giving herself over to hope she doesn’t want to feel.
And I get it. She doesn’t know me enough yet to understand that I will lay myself down on hot coals to protect that hope for her.
That I will not betray her, and I will slay anyone who would even think about asking me to do that.
But first things first… She’s had a long day, and there’s pasta to make.
As if on cue, there’s a knock at the kitchen door.
“Have you murdered your guest yet?” Sloane calls out.
Frankie’s eyes go wide, and she pushes at my chest. I step back just enough to let her hop down from the counter, but I keep one hand on her hip, not quite ready to lose contact.
“We’re just about to start cooking,” she calls back, her voice only slightly breathless.
She straightens her hoodie.
I tuck a strand of honey-gold hair behind her ear.
We share a brief, searing look, then we break apart as they come tumbling in.
“We heard some muffled sounds and worried for his health,” Liz says.
Francesca turns red and whirls around.
I find my abandoned beer and lift it, grinning at her friends. I’m not embarrassed at all that they overheard us kissing.
This is what I want. Not just the kissing, though that’s pretty fucking spectacular. But being part of Francesca’s everyday world.
As she adds a freezer bag of cooked ground meat and diced veg to the pot on the stove, her roommates tell me about the origin story of this very specific dinner.
“Her first year out here for med school was our girl’s first year living on her own.”
“Ever?” I look at Francesca with surprise. The woman I met in Vegas was so confident and mature for someone who had only been living on her own for a few years.
She makes a face. “Controlling parents. I lived in residence every year of my undergrad, and at home for my Masters degree.”
“Was that Boston?”
She nods, hesitating briefly before adding, “My mom stayed there after my dad took a job in St. Louis.”
So she agreed to live at home for a year because her father wasn’t there.
And then fled to the west coast as soon as she got into medical school.
I wonder how much of her life her parents are still involved in. Tuition and living expenses have to be pretty steep.
But that’s going to change in the summer.
Freedom for Francesca is right around the corner.
I can understand why she doesn’t want to rock the boat right now. I stormed into her life at exactly the wrong moment.
“I was trying to eat as cheaply as possible, but I was living in this really tiny little studio apartment, and I only had two burners. One pot, one frying pan. Basic. So I mastered the one pot pasta, and to this day, it’s pretty much the only thing I know how to make.”
“Not true, she makes amazing breakfast for dinner, too,” Liz says, storming to her defense.
They all share an affectionate look.
Francesca nods. “I can make eggs. So that’s two meals. But I’ve perfected this one. It comes together really quickly because I’ve prepped these frozen packets in advance. Now I just add stock and tomatoes, and then pasta, and it all cooks together into this delicious comfort food.”
My mouth is watering already from the scent. “It smells amazing.”
“Thanks.” She beams at me.
“How about you, Logan?” Sloane has made herself comfortable at the table again. A beer bottle swings between her fingers, and there’s a bright, inquisitive gleam in her eye. “Can you cook?”
Can you take care of our girl who only knows two meals and is going to be working her butt off as a doctor?
“I can cook.”
“His sister is a chef,” Francesca says.
That grabs her roommate’s attention. “Oh yeah?”
I nod. “She’s bossy about knife skills. I’m mostly prep guy, but I cook for myself when I’m home.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“Sloane!”
“What? I want to know if he’s a family man.”
“Oh my God.”
“My sister is the youngest of five. The rest of us are smelly boys. I’m right in the middle. I like being from a big family, if that answers your question.”
Sloane tips back her bottle and shrugs.
I change the subject. As much as they want dirt on me, I want to know more about my bride, but the first step there is to get her roommates talking about themselves. “And you’re all doing different specialties? I know Francesca is doing Emergency Medicine.”
“I’m going into pediatrics,” Liz says. “I love kids. “
“I’m doing cardiology,” Sloane offers.
“Following in her daddy’s footsteps,” Liz says, then hastens to add, “which is smart.”
“I’m in the same field as my dad, too. There are lots of advantages there, but you have to hoe your own path in the end.”
“Nepo baby fist bump,” Sloane says gleefully, holding out her hand.
I knock my knuckles against hers.
Francesca rolls her eyes, then puts a lid on the pot. “Will you be okay with the inquisition for a few minutes. I want to go get changed while this cooks.”
“Sure.” I watch her disappear down the hallway, blonde ponytail swishing hypnotically, then turn back to her friends. “What else do you want to know?”
She returns, showered and changed into very touchable sweatpants and a t-shirt, just as the pasta is ready to eat.
I jump up and help her serve us each a bowl, topped with an impressive amount of freshly grated parmesan.
And when she sits down, I take the chair right next to hers, so our arms brush and I can watch her blonde waves curl a bit as they dry. Hear the pleased little noises she makes as she eats her dinner, and feel the vibes rolling off her as I navigate the conversation.
Thankfully, the vibes are good.
The conversation flows easily. They compare stories from work today. Since I can’t talk about my job in detail, I share how traffic was on the way from the airport, and that’s a good segue for steering the conversation to preferred neighbourhoods to live in for a resident working at their hospital.
“I’ll probably live in this house for the next fifteen years,” Sloane says. “The location can’t be beat, unless I want to live right next door to my parents, which is—I mean, I love my parents, but that’s a little too close, you know?”
“My oldest brother does live a few blocks from my parents, and yes, I know. It’s too close.” I pause. “But sometimes I live in their basement, so…”
Francesca wrinkles her nose at me. “Do you?”
“I’m not perfect.” I wink at her. “I have a cabin north of Duluth, but owning my own place in Minneapolis when I’m only there for a few weeks every summer feels like overkill.”
“Fair.”
“Didn’t you live in Minneapolis for a year or two?” Liz asks Francesca.
She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, it’s a small world.”
I bump my elbow against hers. “Did you like it?”
She shoots murder eyes at me for the relentless attempts at small talk. “I was like, four.”
I’m undeterred. “Still.”
“Sure, yeah. I liked it. But I love California and I’m never leaving.” A warning, a shot across the bow.
My wife lives here.
That’s fine.
I can live here, too.
But not here here, not in Sloane’s house, as much fun as it might be to play Four’s Company for a hot second.
“Noted.” I take a big bite of pasta to keep myself from asking her how she feels about summers on the lake. That’s a non-issue this year, because she’ll have just started her residency, but on the other side of that… “How long is your residency?”
“Three years,” Sloane helpfully provides. “And then she’ll have all the time in the world for visiting Minneapolis.”
Sloane might be a mind reader.
Francesca shifts the murder eyes her way. “I’ll have a job.”
Liz waves her hand. “You’ll work ten shifts a month.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“Not interesting,” Francesca says, but she doesn’t mean it. She’s thinking about the logistics, too. There’s a set to her shoulders, a tilt to her head. The murder eyes are just a cover for wondering how much time she might have with a hockey player husband who can cook for her.
During the hockey season, we’ll be two shift workers juggling a busy calendar, but my career won’t last forever, and in the summers…
But that’s a question for tomorrow. Or the coming months, when I’ll be far, far away from here, and the only connection we’ll have is our phones.
“We’ll do the dishes,” Liz announces as soon as Francesca finishes eating. “Frankie, you cooked. Logan, you helped. You two are off the hook.”
“That’s not—” Frankie starts.
“You know the house rules, chef doesn’t clean.” Sloane’s already gathering the bowls. “Why don’t you two go...talk some more?”
The pause before talk is loaded with enough innuendo that my wife’s cheeks turn pink.
“Subtle,” she mutters.
“Since when do we do subtle in this house?” Liz asks cheerfully. “Go.”
We go.
I grab my suit jacket and Francesca leads the way to the living room again.
“Your friends are great,” I tell her.
“They are.” She fidgets. “And they’re going to have a million questions the second you leave.”
“You can give them any answers you want. Or none at all. That’s my plan.”
“I’ll probably tell them everything.” She exhales shakily. “It’ll be good to fully debrief with them about just how unhinged you are.”
That makes me chuckle. She’s not wrong. I showed up here and pressed my case without holding back.
So I gesture to the door. “I should probably go before I push it too far.”
Surprise dashes across her expression before she can lock it down.
I manage not to crow about the fact that she really doesn’t want me to leave. I wonder if she realizes that herself.
And that means I should leave for another reason—right now, she’s probably the most open to me coming back tomorrow.
That is of the utmost importance to me.
“I actually do need to go, for curfew reasons,” I say regretfully.
She makes a face, a reaction about her father.
I see that, too, but I lean in and pretend that she’s expressing sympathy. “Don’t feel sorry for me. If I pretend to be good tonight, then I can stay as long as you want me to tomorrow.”
Bright interest gleams in her eye.
“Would that be all right, Francesca? Can I come back tomorrow and woo you a little more?” I take her hand, threading our fingers together.
She lifts her face, and suddenly we’re very, very close. “Yes, you can come back tomorrow.”
I stare down into her eyes. I could get lost like this. I will, soon enough.
But for tonight, I have to find a way to let her go.
I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, putting everything I’m feeling into it. All the want and the need and the absolute certainty that this woman is it for me. All the gratitude I have for having found her, first on my thirtieth birthday, and now again.
When I finally pull away, she’s clinging to my shirt.
I kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth one more time because I can’t help myself. “Good night, secret wife.”
I’m grinning like an idiot as I slide into the back of an Uber. My smile only gets bigger when my phone buzzes with a text a minute later.
Frankie
Good night, secret husband
My heart fucking soars.
Frankie
I can’t believe I just typed that out, you should delete this message
Logan
Never
Frankie
You’re very hard to say no to.
Logan
Do you still want to say no?
Frankie
I don’t think so, but I’m scared
Logan
That’s very brave to admit
Frankie
You might need to kiss that fear away tomorrow night
Logan
You’ll get all the kisses you need, I promise