Chapter 15 Logan
LOGAN
Ihave a couple of days off from the fire department, and I'm already going stir-crazy sitting around the house.
My leather and cedar scent carries traces of restlessness and longing I don't want to examine too closely.
Desire that has everything to do with the omega currently holed up in our guest room, working on wedding plans with the kind of focused intensity that makes me want to find excuses to walk past her door.
Savannah's been back in Pine Hollow for weeks now, and I can't stop thinking about the way she moved through our kitchen that first night. Like maybe eight years of breaking her heart might actually lead to somewhere worth going.
"You planning to sit there all morning staring into your coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe, or are you going to do something useful?" Griff asks from the kitchen doorway.
I look up to find him leaning against the frame, sandy hair sticking up at impossible angles and his sandalwood scent carrying that particular brand of morning smugness that makes me want to punch him.
He's wearing yesterday's jeans and a faded t-shirt that's seen better days, looking like he rolled out of bed and decided to share his morning charm with the world.
"It's my day off. I'll stare at whatever the fuck I want to stare at," I reply.
"Right. Forgot you're allergic to productivity when you're not being paid for it," Griff shoots back.
"Says the man who left pizza boxes on the counter for three days until Xavier threw them away in disgust," I counter.
"Those were going to be recycled," Griff defends.
"Into what? Modern art?" I ask dryly.
Xavier appears in the kitchen like some kind of perfectly groomed apparition, already dressed for work despite the early hour.
His dark hair is styled with characteristic precision, not a strand out of place, and his mint and cologne scent carries that clinical efficiency that means he's got a full schedule ahead of him.
He's wearing charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt that probably costs more than my monthly grocery budget, looking like he stepped out of a medical journal instead of our chaotic pack house.
"Are you two going to argue about household maintenance all morning, or can I drink my coffee in peace?"
"Peace is overrated," I mutter, but I shut up because Xavier looks like he hasn't slept much and pushing him when he's tired usually ends badly for everyone.
Footsteps on the stairs make all three of us look toward the hallway, and then Savannah appears in the kitchen doorway like she's walking into my personal fantasies without permission.
She's wearing dark jeans that hug her curves in ways that should be illegal, the denim fitting her legs and ass like it was custom-made for her body.
Her cream-colored sweater is soft-looking, the kind of fabric that begs to be touched, and it brings out the warm gold undertones in her brown eyes.
Her auburn hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the morning light streaming through the kitchen window.
Her vanilla bourbon scent hits me like a physical blow, warm and sweet and complex, carrying traces of the floral shampoo she uses and something that's purely her. My alpha instincts sit up and take notice, every nerve ending suddenly hyperaware of her presence.
"Morning," she says, her voice still slightly rough with sleep, and the sound does things to my chest that I'm not prepared for.
She heads straight for the coffee pot like a woman with priorities, moving with the kind of unconscious grace that makes me want to watch her do ordinary things for the rest of my life.
The sweater shifts as she reaches for a mug, revealing a strip of pale skin at her lower back that makes my mouth go dry.
"Anyone know if there's a decent office supply store in town?" she asks, pouring coffee with the kind of careful attention that suggests she's as aware of our audience as I am. "I need poster board and markers for timeline planning."
"Bennett's Hardware closed," Griff tells her, and I catch the way his eyes track her movements. "It's a coffee shop now."
"Of course it is." She takes a sip of coffee and makes a face that's equal parts adorable and insulting. "What about office supplies?"
"You'd have to drive to Denver or order online," Xavier says, adjusting his glasses with that precise movement that means he's cataloging information. "Small-town living doesn't include same-day access to professional supplies."
"Fantastic." She takes another sip and winces again. "This coffee is terrible. Who made it?"
“Logan,” Griff growls.
“Explains a lot,” Savannah replies.
“Hey, my coffee’s not that bad,” I protest.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’ve lost it. “Tastes like someone filtered it through gym socks.”
“Clean gym socks,” I snap back.
“That’s not the improvement you think it is,” she counters, raising an eyebrow.
“I was thinking,” I begin before I lose my nerve, “maybe you’d like a tour of the town. See what’s changed since you left. I’ve got the day off, and you look like you could use a break from wedding planning.”
She pauses, mug halfway to her lips, giving me a suspicious look.
"We did that the first day, you moved to the house," Xavier says. Trying to obviously fuck up my plans.
"Well, I was thinking maybe I can show you the new places, grab lunch somewhere," I continue.
"Are you asking me on a date, Logan Pierce?" Savannah asks.
Yeah. I mean we need to talk. Just Savannah and I. We're acting like the past didn't happen, and I wasn't that jerk that broke her heart.
"Call it whatever you want," I reply.
"Sounds nice," she says after a moment, and I catch the way her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip. "But I'm buying lunch."
"Like hell you are!" I say. She hasn't changed. She knows that by me paying it is a date. She's still trying to keep her distance.
"I can afford to buy my own lunch," Savannah insists.
"I'm sure you can. Doesn't mean you're going to," I counter.
Her vanilla bourbon scent shifts again, carrying something that might be amusement or might be arousal. The combination makes my alpha instincts purr with satisfaction.
"Still the same stubborn alpha, I see," she quizzes whilst lifting an eyebrow.
"Some things don't change," I confirm.
"Good to know," Savannah responds.
Griff clears his throat with obvious intention, breaking the moment before it can get too charged for public consumption. "I'll be at the Henderson site all day if anyone needs me."
He heads for the door, grabbing his work boots and tool belt on the way out.
Xavier sets down his coffee mug and pulls a face. "I have appointments until six. Dinner's on your own tonight."
"We'll survive," I reply.
"Will you? Because your track record with independent meal planning is questionable at best," Xavier points out.
"I can handle feeding two adults for one day," I insist.
"Can you handle it without giving anyone food poisoning?" Xavier asks.
"Fuck off, Doc," I retort.
But there's no heat in it, and Xavier's mint scent carries affection beneath his professional concern. He grabs his medical bag and heads for the door, pausing to look back at us with an expression I can't quite read.
"Have fun on your tour," Xavier says to Savannah, and there's something loaded in his tone that makes my chest tight.
Then they're both gone, leaving Savannah and me alone in the kitchen with the weight of eight years of history hanging between us like smoke.
"So," she says, finishing her terrible coffee with admirable determination. "Where does this tour start?"
"Wherever you want to see first?" I ask.
"The coffee shop that used to be Peterson's Hardware. I need to see what progress looks like in Pine Hollow," Savannah decides.
"Give me five minutes to change," I say, suddenly aware that I'm wearing yesterday's jeans and a flannel shirt that's seen better days.
"You look fine," Savannah tells me.
The words hit me harder than they should, carrying something warm that makes my skin feel too tight. "Yeah?"
Her brown eyes do a quick sweep from my face down to my boots and back up, and I catch the way her pupils dilate slightly. "The lumberjack look works for you."
Heat crawls up my neck, and I have to resist the urge to preen under her attention like some kind of peacock. "Lumberjack look?"
"Flannel shirt, work boots, general air of rugged competence," Savannah explains.
"Like a mountain man?" I ask.
"In a good way." She sets down her empty mug and moves toward the hallway. "I should grab a jacket. It's cold out there."
"Savannah?" I call out.
She turns back, eyebrows raised in question.
"You look more than fine too," I tell her.
Pink floods her cheeks, and her vanilla bourbon scent spikes with something warm and pleased. "Thanks."
We parked and start walking down Main Street in the kind of crisp October air that makes your breath fog and your cheeks sting.
Pine Hollow spreads around us like a picture postcard, the mountains rising on all sides in layers of blue and purple and white.
Snow clings to the pine branches and sparkles on the sidewalks, and the whole town looks like something from a Christmas movie.
Savannah's wearing a navy peacoat that probably cost more than my monthly salary, stylish and sleek, but more suited for Denver’s crisp Octobers than the chilly bite of the mountains.
Her hands are buried in her pockets, shoulders drawn in just enough to show she feels the cold, and I have to resist the urge to pull her close, if only to share a little warmth.
"It really is beautiful here," she says, her breath creating small clouds in the frigid air. "I'd forgotten how the light looks different in the mountains."
"Different how?" I ask.
"Cleaner, somehow. More intense. Like someone turned up the contrast on the whole world," Savannah explains.