Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The next morning, Logan knocks at my door, even though he typically goes straight to the back.
“Morning, Ms. Summers,” he says, smirking, and I suppress a groan. “Sorry I didn’t let you know sooner, but a job I had fell through, so I thought I’d put a few hours in on your deck. If that’s ok with you.”
“Yeah, sure. Just don’t feel you need to overwork yourself for me. Even though I really want it done soon,” I joke, making him chuckle. “And please, for the love of God, don’t call me Ms. Summers. It’s Sadie.”
“Sadie. OK.” He slips his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels.
“Want a cup of coffee? I was about to make some.”
“Sure, thanks. If I’m not interrupting anything.” His eyes travel to the staircase, as if he’s checking to see if someone is here.
“No, no. It’s just me today. The kids are at their father’s. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” I leave him in the living room and start for the kitchen, happy I got dressed this morning. It’s a simple pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but it’s better than a bathrobe.
The coffee machine hisses as the dark liquid brews, so I grab two cups and pour us both a generous amount. I also grab a pack of cookies which somehow survived my last PMS.
Entering the living room, I almost drop the tray with cookies and coffee. Logan, in his worn-out white t-shirt and snug jeans, is standing in front of the bookshelf, my bookshelf, skimming through one of my books.
“Did you write all these?” He doesn’t lift his head.
“Yes.”
“Wow. I knew you’re a writer, but this … this is impressive.” He shoots me a blinding smile.
“Thank you.” My ears burn.
I write spicy, spicy stuff. Like stuff you have to be heavily trained to be able to read in public.
The funny thing is, I’ve had next to none of the spicy experiences I write about.
One could read my book and assume I’m experienced in it, while the kinkiest thing I’ve engaged in was some light spanking I’ve tried to interest David in.
Surprise, he wasn’t into it. It was another thing he thought I had unrealistic expectations about because of fiction.
“Sex doesn’t happen that way in real life,” he would say with a pitiful expression, making me feel silly for wanting to try it.
Luckily, Logan puts the book back and my breath returns.
“Here’s your coffee,” I say, grabbing a cup and sitting down.
He does the same, and I busy myself blowing on the steaming liquid so that the silence doesn’t become uncomfortable. This is the first time we’re drinking coffee together. Usually, I bring him a cup outside.
We lift the cups to our lips at the same time, our faces grimacing in sync. The reaction is instant, quicker than the bitter taste of the coffee registers in my brain.
“This is … sweet,” he says, his nose scrunched like he just downed a shot, not a sip of my delicious drink.
“It is. People tend to prefer sweet, rather than the taste of dirt, or whatever this is. ”
His laugh rumbles out of him, brightening his face. “Still, how much sugar is in this?”
“Two and a half teaspoons.” I purse my lips in defiance. “Seems like I’ve got our drinks mixed up.” It was probably the sight of him reading one of my books that distracted me. “I’ll make you a new one.” I start to get up, but he stops me with a hand on my wrist.
“No need. I’ll just take this one.” He drags his bitter coffee toward him, pushing my cup to me with his other hand. “You can, of course, make yourself a new one, but I truly don’t mind drinking this.” He lifts the cup in the air, shooting me a simple smile before pressing it to his lips.
My eyes catch on the spot where his lips connect to the cup, the same spot my lips just were. Why is there something so hot about it?
“Big night last night?” he asks, and I’m grateful for him making small talk and pulling me out of my trance.
“Not really. It was an author thing. We have them a few times a year. But my sister, you met her, forced me to go all out with the outfit. That’s not something I would typically wear.” I don’t know why I feel the need to make excuses for myself, but I do.
“I think you looked good in it.” His tone is casual, and I don’t read too much into it.
“Thank you. I might just wear it to the school pick up tomorrow.”
He chuckles with a hearty laugh, pulling my own lips up. “The other moms will love it.” He winks. “Let me know how that goes.”
This time, I’m the one to chuckle. “So, your boss couldn’t let you off today since the other job failed?”
“Nope. He’s a real pain in the ass.”
“Oof,” I hiss. “Guess I’m lucky to be my own boss.”
“So am I.” He glances at me expectantly. “That was the joke.” My confused look forces him to explain further. “The boss is a real pain in the ass, the boss being me? ”
“Oh … OH. Wait, you own Chase Constructions?” He nods. “Aren’t there other people working other jobs?”
“Yup. We have four sites going at the moment.”
My forehead wrinkles in confusion. “How old are you?”
Another chuckle escapes him. “I’m 29. Started Chase Constructions when I was 22.”
“Wow. I thought you were like 24.”
“Come on, we’re pretty much the same age.” His dark eyes sparkle as they meet mine.
“Not really. But thanks.” I laugh awkwardly. “Though you called me Ms. Summers this morning, so I don’t quite believe your story.” I give him the stink-eye.
“It was out of respect.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “You’re a client.”
“Anyway,” I roll my eyes, “I’m definitely older than you, and you’re old enough not to ask how much.”
“Ok, you win. Never liked younger girls, anyway.” His tone is, once again, playful, but his words are dangerous.
I take a sip of coffee, trying to collect myself. He’s so fucking charming that he can get away with saying anything. No wonder he has a successful construction firm at his age. He sure knows how to get and keep clients.
I change the subject, moving the conversation to safer ground. “So, you’re the boss and you still do the work yourself? Guess you’re not such a pain in the ass, then.” I throw in a smile.
“Erm … Typically, not. I haven’t been working the sites for a couple of years. Just overseeing everything.”
“What do you mean? You’re here, every day, doing the work on your own?”
“Yeah, well, it was kind of a last-minute project.” His hand sneaks to the back of his neck, scratching it. “Didn’t really have workers to spare.”
I put the cup onto the coffee table and rub my hands on my thighs. “I shouldn’t have asked, should I?” I wince. “Now I feel even worse. Why did you do it? ”
“You looked like you really needed it.” He shrugs.
A pang of sadness hits my stomach. I was desperate, wasn’t I? And this poor man took pity on me.
“Well, thank you,” I croak out. “I’m not typically such a mess.”
“I think you’re doing great.” His words pierce my chest. “And the deck is going to be amazing.”
I let out a weak chuckle, glad he made the joke, since I was a second away from crying. So many doubts poison my brain. Hearing that I’m doing great is like an antidote for them.
The silence stretches for a second while I try to get my bearings. He gets up, placing the cup carefully on the coaster.
“Better get to work.”
“Sure.” I give him a soft smile.
He gets to his station in the backyard, while I’m still rooted to my spot on the couch. Feelings of guilt build up inside of me, like they so often do, clogging my throat.
I feel guilty for taking my kids’ family away.
I feel guilty for not being enough to keep my husband interested.
But most of all, I feel guilty for spending so many years being unhappy.
Logan gets to work, sawing and stacking and measuring the wooden boards. I observe him intently, and my thoughts empty, minute after minute.
There’s something comforting in watching him. He’s peaceful, focused, and I’m hypnotized by the sight.
My mind finally silent, I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of my coffee.
This is a good day. I met a guy last night, my kids are having fun, and I got to spend a cozy morning at home. It’s a good day.
I won’t let my head spoil it.