Chapter 26 #2
“You created a recovery blend that you could bottle up and sell to athletes everywhere.”
My wheels start turning. “So if I took them—hot or cold—and put them in your training room or lunchroom, would athletes like that?”
“Yes! And if you gave options with caffeine for a pre-workout version or if you had sugar-free syrup options, even better.” His fork is resting in his fries, like he’s too busy dreaming with me to eat. “This could be huge, G.”
Excitement flutters in my chest. “You think so, 49?”
“I know so.”
It’s so much easier to believe in myself when Logan’s next to me. Dreaming doesn’t feel dangerous with him.
It feels inevitable.
We’re smiling and holding hands across the table and sharing food, and everything feels right. Yet in only a week, he’ll be back in Chicago.
Last time he left, I didn’t let myself admit how much I’d miss him. Now, I can’t deny it.
No matter how much that scares me.
***
After dinner, we walk around the farm hand in hand, wandering around the elaborate autumn set up.
It’s been such a cool September, people are already wearing boots, scarves, and light jackets.
There are hay bales stacked into photo backdrops, scattered pale green pumpkins and bright green gourds that were picked too early, and a huge field of corn that will become a maze eventually, but for now features a sign saying “Waiting for the stalks to catch up.”
For the South, all of this is huge. It feels like a gift from the universe that we’re not fighting the heat alongside the humidity at this time of year. Getting to wear an actual hoodie and cuddle up against my boyfriend is a slice of heaven that smells like pumpkin, apple cider, and hay.
If my shoes weren’t strangling my feet, this night would be perfect.
“Hey, Setup Man!” someone calls out to Logan, and he waves. He waves at the next person who calls him that, too.
By the third person, I’m getting frustrated. “It’s Logan, not Lucas,” I say with a firm smile. “Logan Fischer. The knuckleballer. Number 49. They barely even look alike.”
“They’re twins, lady,” a guy says, snorting. “It’s not like anyone can tell them apart.”
“They’re mirror image twins. Logan’s right-handed, Lucas is left-handed. And their faces and smiles and hair are all completely different, to say nothing of how Logan’s way cuter—”
“Cuter?” Logan asks, interrupting my tirade as the fan rolls his eyes and walks past.
I spin to look at Logan. “What’s wrong with cute?”
“It’s not ‘ruggedly handsome.’ I’ll tell you that much.”
My mouth quirks up in a half smile. “Sorry, 49. You’re extremely cute.”
“I have a six-pack.”
“And I’m sure it’s also extremely cute.”
Logan pulls me into a one-armed hug and then covers my mouth with his hand. “She means crazy hot, people,” he calls out, as if we have an audience hanging on our every word. “Definitely not cute. Cute is for babies.”
I say something into his hand, and he takes it off my mouth. “You’re being kind of a baby—” I manage to get out before he covers my mouth again.
“Nasty Georgie!”
“Mm mmm-mmm.”
“Huh?” He removes his hand so I can speak.
“Just Georgie,” I say.
He pulls me the rest of the way into a hug, his arms wrapped so close and firm, I never want to leave this hug.
And he’s not kidding about that six-pack.
“It’s never Just Georgie,” he says. “It’s Spectacularly Georgie. Magnificently Georgie. Wholly and Completely Georgie. But never Just Georgie. Got it?”
“Got it. Thanks, Bossy Logan,” I murmur into his collarbone, and I grin when I feel him shake with laughter.
“Bossy Logan is probably Wholly and Completely Logan. Lee and Lukie will tell you all about it in October.”
I stiffen, and Logan pulls back. He takes my hand and guides me over to a few hay bales up against a split-rail fence with a fall-leaves garland on it.
“Did I say something that upset you? Was it the mention of October? I know we haven’t talked about what me leaving means long term. Do you want to think long term?”
“Logan—”
“Georgie,” he interrupts. “I’m crazy about you. I don’t see any version of me moving forward without you. I want to see where this goes, but if you don’t—”
“LOGAN.”
His head snaps back an inch. “You interrupted me.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m glad.”
“Can you stop talking for a second?”
“Yes. Now?”
I glare over my laugh. “It’s not October that scares me. It’s meeting your family.”
He angles his head to the side and nods. “Yeah, that’s fair. They’re a lot.”
“No, not them being too much.” I look down at our hands instead of at him. “Me being a boring barista from a small town whose dreams are even smaller. You’ve arrived at the kinds of dreams even the most ambitious people don’t indulge in. You’re incredible, and I’m—”
“A fool,” he says, gently taking his hat off my head and playing with a strand of my hair that frames my face.
The sensation is so sweet, I close my eyes.
“You are a fool if you think I’m the one people are going to be impressed by.
A boring barista with small dreams? Not even close.
A brilliant woman who cares so much, people would come back for her smile alone and stay for her creations.
Your dreams aren’t small; they’ve been hidden.
Believe me, no one will remember I’m in the room when you smile at them the way you do.
Especially my family. The only thing they’ll wonder when they meet you is if you have a head injury to be dating a clown like me. ”
I smile, not quite satisfied, but Logan’s so sweet, so blind to my inadequacies, and I don’t particularly want to educate him the rest of the way tonight. Not when his fingers are skimming my face from my temple down to my neck, and his touch is warming me more than any heat lamp here.
“You’re nice,” I say, goose bumps rising all over my skin at his touch.
“I’m not trying to be nice. I’m trying to warn you that my family is going to be crazy about you,” he says.
I smile, and his eyes drop to my mouth, which makes my breathing speed up and my pulse race until all I can do is pull his face to mine and kiss him feverishly hard.
I’ve never felt an emotion this all-consuming.
My hands are all over his hair, his face, his neck, his back.
I’m pulling him close, kissing him like he’s my oxygen. Like if I let him go, he’ll disappear.
Logan doesn’t match my pace or my energy, though.
He takes the hat gently off my head and puts his hand on the back of my neck, each movement calm and confident.
His mouth is warm and his touch, his caress, is so reassuring, I start to slow.
I keep my hands around his back and deepen my kisses until the fire is turned down to a low, steady heat.
“This is a family event, you know,” a woman drawls as she stomps by, and Logan and I both break apart, laughing.
I rest my cheek against his chest, and he runs his hands through my hair so softly, I whimper.
“My momma always played with my hair,” I say. “It’s one of my favorite feelings.”
“Is this you giving me permission to play with your hair?”
“Permission granted,” I say, smiling. Then I push off his chest enough to peer up at him. “I don’t know how to do this without being scared. Us.”
“Then be scared,” he says. “And do it anyway, if you want to.”
“I want to. More than I can say.”
Logan’s face splits apart with a grin bigger than I’ve ever seen. “Okay then.”
I laugh. “That’s it?”
“What else can I say? That’s all I wanted to hear, and I heard it.”
“Wow. You are … something.”
“Is it a brat? It’s a brat. You can say it.”
“I’m not calling you a brat,” I say.
“But you’re thinking it, right?”
“Oh, I’m thinking it.”
He pulls me close for another kiss. “Good enough for me, Spectacularly Georgie.”
“I need one thing, though,” I say against his mouth. “Could you give me a piggyback to the car when we’re done?”
“You mean when we’re done making out?” he clarifies, kissing my forehead and then my nose. “Sure. But why?”
“My shoes are too small, and my feet are killing me.”