Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Logan
C utting off the power to the table saw, Logan pulled the safety goggles from his face and rested them on top of his head. The half of the garage he’d appropriated as a workshop had been filled with wood a week ago, now there was hardly anything left.
He looked around, grunting in satisfaction at how empty it was. Most of the work he’d needed to do on the house had been done, now there were just some finishing touches to take care of. He’d opted to work down here instead of in the house to keep the noise down for Harper.
In truth, he found it hard to watch her struggle with her work. She’d been so adamant that she needed to write these songs for Isla, but Logan could see it was tearing her up inside. She’d spent so long in the shadow of her sister—forced there by their father, he’d bet—that she thought doing anything else would be disloyal.
He snorted, shaking his head. He just wanted her to be happy, but trying to recreate the past was not the way to get there.
Logan would know.
He hadn’t told her any of that though. He wasn’t stupid. There were some things you needed to figure out for yourself.
Logan dropped the goggles onto the bench and hefted the piece of timber onto his shoulder, carrying it out of the garage and across the expanse of lawn that had grown long over the past week. He really needed to cut it and soon.
It was one of the many tasks that added up for a homeowner. Not that he’d change that for anything. There was something so wonderfully freeing about having his own place. After being crammed in with six other kids—and with five boys in one bedroom—peace wasn’t something he took for granted.
As Logan climbed the back stairs onto the deck, he heard banging from inside the house. He set the timber down and carefully opened the door, making sure not to hit anything with the length of wood. Carrying it inside, he propped it up against the wall and stopped in his tracks.
Harper was in the kitchen, bending over to take something out of the oven. Her jeans shorts were pulled tight across her backside. There wasn’t much that could stop Logan from breathing, what with it being an automatic thing and all, but as Harper straightened, her blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, his breath caught.
Fuck, she really was beautiful.
“Hey princess.” He leaned against the door frame and watched her lift the tray of cookies from the oven and place it on the heavy wooden chopping board to cool.
She turned, tugging the oven mitts off, and smiled. “I baked.”
“So I can see.” The kitchen was covered in brownies, cakes, and cookies cooling on a variety of plates, racks and chopping boards. Logan hadn’t thought he’d had the ingredients for all this.
She sighed, dropping the mitts to the bench and shutting the oven door. “I couldn’t think, so I called your mom and she dropped off some things for me.”
A warm feeling spread through Logan’s chest at the thought of Harper reaching out to his mom like that.
“She did?” He raised an eyebrow, pushing off the door frame and reaching for a tray of cooled cookies. He took one and bit into it, the delicious chocolate chip flavor bursting on his tongue. He moaned, closing his eyes and swallowing. “These are good.”
She smiled, her eyes sparkling at the compliment. “My mom’s recipe.”
“I’ll consider myself privileged to taste them.”
Her smile grew wider. “She would have liked you a lot.” Harper looked down to where her hands were fiddling with the ties of the apron she wore.
Another thing that his mom would have brought.
“Logan?”
“Yeah?” He mumbled around a mouthful of his second cookie.
“I can’t write anything. I’ve tried, and it all just ends up cliched and horrible.”
Logan swallowed and cleared his throat. “Is it really that bad?”
She choked on a humorless laugh and took the few steps to the island to snatch up a notebook. Harper opened it, flicking through the pages before stopping and folding the cover back. She looked up at Logan and then back down at the page, her lips thinning before she started to read.
“You are my heart. Destined to be apart. Yes, baby, one day we’ll find a way.” She looked up at Logan with one eyebrow cocked, and her head titled to one side. “That’s one of the better lines.”
Logan grimaced. He didn’t know much about music, least of all creating it, but even he couldn’t imagine Isla singing those lines to her usual pop dance beat.
“Are you only having trouble when you try to write songs for Isla to sing?”
Harper put the notepad down on the bench and tapped her fingers against the stone top. She bit her lip, face screwed up as she thought about Logan’s question.
Logan wanted to pull her into his arms and drop a kiss onto her nose, but something held him back.
He could handle Harper in his house on a permanent basis, he thought with a start. It would be no hardship, and it wasn’t about the cookies, though that thought didn’t stop him grabbing another.
“What do you mean?” She asked slowly.
He stalled for a second, cookie halfway to his mouth, before he realized she hadn’t been reading his thoughts, which was a relief.
“Have you tried to write anything else?”
“Anything else?”
He swallowed the delicious concoction, this one a mix of cranberry and white chocolate and decided to not reach for another cookie. Self-control and all that.
“Yeah, like songs not for Isla.”
Harper blinked at him as if she hadn’t considered that idea. “Not for Isla?”
Logan nodded and watched as she considered the idea.
“No... I uh…” she trailed off, staring dazedly out the windows that opened on the view of the water.
Had she never written anything else? Surely, she hadn’t only written songs for Isla?
“You only write for Isla?”
“Yes,” she said. She blinked and focused on him. “I only write for Isla.” She grimaced. “Except for when I was a teenager, then I wrote for me too.”
Logan smiled. “And if you could write for you now, what would you write?”
Her reply was instant. “Acoustic folk songs. The type with a bit of a country feel.” She smiled, and her face lit up at the idea.
“So why don’t you write that?”
“Because Isla doesn’t sing that stuff. It’s not part of her brand. If she?—”
“Not for her. For you.” Logan interrupted her.
“But I can’t. I need to write for Isla.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Logan’s voice softened and he gave her a smile, easing the harsh criticism.
“Yeah, I see your point,” she said with a grimace. “Alright, I’ll write something for myself. But only as a way to get back into the flow of things. I still need to get this album out.”
It was a start, and that’s all Logan wanted. Harper had more talent in her little finger than most people did in their entire bodies, and he wanted her to see it for once.
Maybe if she managed to write something for herself she would?
Harper began packing away the cookies and brownies, her back turned to Logan. He watched as she moved around his kitchen with sure strides, opening cupboards and drawers to find what she was after.
There was something delightful about having her in his space. He walked up behind her and slid his arms around her waist.
She squeaked and stiffened and then settled back against his chest. “Logan.”
“Mmmm?” His lips trailed down from her ear over her neck, her skin shivering at the touch of his lips.
“I need to get these cookies put away,” she said, her voice breathless.
“They can wait.” He swung her up into his arms.
So could the timber he needed to finish the closet in the last bedroom upstairs. So could the world. As far as Logan West was concerned, the only thing he couldn’t pull away from right now was Harper Holden.
He carried her, bridal style, up the stairs and into what he’d begun to think of as their bedroom and soon neither Logan nor Harper were thinking about song writing, baked goods or renovations.