Chapter 24 #2
I wave and watch Liv drive off, and then I glance around the parking lot.
My eyes catch on my lending library in the far corner of the lot.
Last I checked, it was looking sparse. I should probably go upstairs and grab more books to replenish it, but I’m not ready to go inside yet.
If I go inside, I’ll beat myself up for forgetting my mom and wonder if I’m living up to the dreams she had for me.
And I’ll beat myself up for aching over Logan as much as I ache missing her.
I’m not ready to turn the page on either of these aches, so I adjust Logan’s hat on my head and make my way slowly over to the little library.
My feet crunch on the gravel in the parking lot, and then I step up onto the sidewalk and into the grass, and my feet pad softly, silently across the lawn to the library.
I open it up and a small sound escapes my lips.
The library is stacked. There are at least a dozen new books, and all of them are …
Michael Crichton?
I give a small shocked laugh and take one of the books out to look at the back. I don’t read the blurb but rather the sticker that says where it was from.
Augusta Fields Regional Airport.
I grab another and another and look at the stickers, and soon, I’ve looked at every one.
They’re all from Augusta Fields Regional Airport.
A seed of hope gets dropped in my chest, and I breathe shallowly, not wanting to inhale too deeply for fear it will take root. I live in a minor league town and have seen enough games to know the pros come here to rehab. If Logan’s really injured—
Stop it. Don’t inhale! Don’t let it take root!
If this hope takes root, there’ll be no going back for me. No denying I’m in love with him. Liv’s right that unrequited love won’t kill me, but I don’t know if I can live with it, either.
And yet—
I want to believe.
The need to believe is as intense and primal as my need for oxygen.
Pain and fear and hope thrash behind my ribs. Still taking shallow breaths, I turn slowly toward Meant to Bean. I wring the strap of my shoulder bag as I take quick steps, my eyes fixed on the ground in front of me. I don’t look up at the booth—our booth.
Not yet.
Pulling the door open, I force myself to ignore how the blast of air conditioning that hits me is laced with wants and wishes.
And if tears are burning the back of my eyes and emotion is making my chest heave with the effort not to hope or want or wish, that’s the price I’ve always paid to live a life of resignation.
I can’t take it anymore.
I let my eyes flit over to the booth.
And there he is, standing and staring at me, his chest heaving, his face half grin, half worry. Tears and laughter both spill out of me, and I can’t hold back for a second longer.
I run to him.
Tears stream down my face as I throw myself into his arms. He picks me off the ground as he kisses my cheek, my forehead, my hair.
“You came back,” I cry.
“I’ll always come back for you,” he whispers.
I put my hands on his cheeks and pull his face toward me before he can say another word.
I almost forget how to breathe, because I’m kissing Logan.
Finally.
His lips are firm when they meet mine, but they soften in the next heartbeat.
Kissing him is like a release of every guard and safety I’ve had on my heart, but it’s too much too fast. My hands are grabbing the muscles in his lower back and then following them up to his shoulder blades and shoulders.
Muscles everywhere, as far as the hands can feel.
Then I’m grabbing his face, touching his neck, playing with his hair.
And my lips are so hungry for him, I’m almost inhaling him with want. With need.
For his part, Logan is intense, but unhurried.
He brings a hand to my face, and his thumb drags slowly along my jaw, the sensation almost enough to compete with the feeling of his mouth catching my bottom lip between his.
His other hand finds the back of my neck.
He tilts my face gently to get a better angle, and the movement calms me.
Focuses my energy. My fists grab his shirt, pulling him closer.
One hand stays there while the other wraps around his neck.
Perfect.
He smells like Big League Chew, and his lips carry the taste on them.
His kiss is slow, unhurried, and so achingly deep, I feel it in my toes.
When he pulls back far enough to kiss the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then finds my lips again, I feel it everywhere—in my knees, my chest, my hands where I’m still holding him.
The sensation runs from every point of contact straight through me.
Logan doesn’t seem to care that we’re in public, and the longer my mouth is on his, the more I think I could do this forever. He touches his fingers to the base of my long braid and presses his fingertips in, massaging, and the touch makes my knees buckle.
He catches me, smiling against my lips. “I got you,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
This kiss is the thrill of an autumn breeze after a long summer, the warmth of cuddling under a blanket on a winter’s day. It’s excitement and solace, reassurance and promises, all in one.
“Wow,” he whispers when we part.
His “wow” makes my heart flutter. The idea that this could mean even half as much to him as it means to me—it’s too much to believe. And here I am, believing it.
“I said you could have a kiss when you came back,” I say.
He chuckles, resting his forehead on mine. “What do you think I came back for?”
“I also told you not to throw games,” I say, poking his stomach. His abs, to be precise.
He puts his hands on my hips, swaying me like we’re dancing. “I didn’t,” he says, staring at my lips in a way that makes me flush from head to toe. “But it’s been forever and I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“More like ten days,” I say, my eyes roving over his face.
“Exactly. Ten forevers. There are limits to what a guy can handle.”
I laugh and bite my bottom lip. “You are making this really hard.”
“What?”
I stare at his mouth the way he was staring at mine, and suddenly I can’t remember what we’re talking about or why we’re doing anything other than what we should be doing.
“What am I making hard?” Logan repeats.
“I don’t mean this to sound nasty,” I say, my hands resting on his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, “but could you shut up and kiss me again?”
He laughs and pulls me into the booth and onto his lap. I settle my arms back around his neck and he puts one hand on my waist and the other on my knee.
“I really like it when you’re sassy,” he says, his bottom lip grazing mine.
And then he’s kissing me again, one hand cradling the back of my head like he’s got all the time in the world and plans to use every second of it.
I’ve lost track of how long it’s been—long enough that my lips feel swollen, long enough that I’ve forgotten anyone else is in this shop.
Then there’s the sound of cups being placed heavily at our table, and we break apart and look up.
“Oh, good,” Alma says, standing over us with a smirk and two drinks. “He found you.”