Season of Second Chances Page 3

  “Come on, birthday girl. You can fill me in on your life over dinner.”

  She blew out a breath, knowing there was no use fighting him. “Fine, but you’re buying the wine.”

  She was certainly going to need a couple of glasses to get through this dinner.

  Chapter Four

  Even with Claire wrapped up in all her winter gear, Logan could tell she was cold. The snow was still coming down hard and didn’t look to be letting up anytime soon. The sidewalks were piling high with the fallen flakes faster than they could be cleared, so navigating them was tricky. After she almost slipped, barely missing landing on her ass because he’d managed to grab her arm in time, he kept his hand on her back, whether she liked it or not—though by the stiff set of her shoulders, he could guess which it was.

  By the time they made it to the restaurant, fortunately still open, their hats and coats were wet from the heavy snow and covered in a layer of white. A waiter he didn’t recognize seated them at a table near the front by the window. Once he’d deposited their menus, he excused himself and let Logan and Claire get settled. Logan watched as she pulled off her hat, shaking out her hair and running her fingers through the long waves to help alleviate some of the mess the hat had caused. She wasn’t remotely aware of the effect she still had on him, even with a mundane gesture like that.

  “God, I forgot how bad the winters here could get.” She rubbed her hands together before cupping them around the small glass bowl in the middle of their table containing a tiny flicker of candlelight.

  He wanted to take her hands between his, bring them to his mouth and warm them with his breath—something he’d done countless times before. And he just about did, too, barely reminding himself in time that she wasn’t his anymore and he needed to show some restraint.

  He’d been stupid to suggest coming here. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, except that he obviously hadn’t been. She’d always done that, though—short circuited his brain until all he could see, think, hear was her.

  They both avoided interaction as they looked at the menu as if they hadn’t seen it a hundred times before. Until they each had glasses of wine in front of them and she had taken a healthy drink of hers, neither of them said a word.

  But he needed to.

  He cleared his throat, drawing her attention to him. “I’m sorry about your grandma, Claire.”

  He knew it wasn’t the best time to do it, but, really, when was a good time to say something like that?

  She froze with the wine glass halfway to her mouth, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on the stem. Lowering her eyes, she offered him a slight nod. She took a long drink of the red liquid in her glass, placing it carefully on the table when she was done. “Thank you for sending the flowers. That was very nice of you.”

  He hated this. That this mundane bullshit was what their relationship had been reduced to. Swallowing his anger, he aimed for composure when he replied. “It was the least I could do. I’m sorry I didn’t come, but I, ah, I...didn’t know if it’d make things harder for you.”

  Her eyes were glassy, and too late he remembered she had a tendency to get more emotional when drinking. Looking down, he realized she’d already drunk half her glass of wine. While she wasn’t necessarily a lightweight, drinking that much, that fast—on an empty stomach, too, he’d bet money on it—and she was nearly certain to be feeling the effects.

  She avoided looking at him, moving her gaze to stare out at the quiet street outside the protection of their window. “No, that’s okay. What you did was enough.” She turned to look at him. “Really, it was fine, Logan.”

  He offered a nod, not wanting to prolong this for her since it was obvious it was still difficult to talk about. And of course it would be. She’d been so close to her grandmother, he imagined losing her had been devastating for Claire.

  He’d managed to rack up a lot of regrets in his thirty-three years, but not being there for her during that time sat prominently at the very top.

  The waiter brought out their food, saving them from continuing with that subject. With only a handful of words exchanged between them since they’d sat down, he knew he needed to change tactics. And if there was one thing he could guarantee would set her at ease, it was to talk about his daughter. Claire had loved Sophie, and that had been one of the very first things that had made Logan fall for this woman.

  He glanced out the window, taking in the covering of white. “I wonder how much snow we’ve gotten. I bet Sophie is chomping at the bit to go out in it, probably begging her mom or Dan to take her out, even now.”

  As he’d hoped, the mere mention of his daughter brought a smile to Claire’s face, her eyes brightening. “I remember how much she loved it. How has she been?”

  “Good, she’s in second grade now. She’s brilliant, of course.”

  “Of course,” Claire offered with a laugh.

  “But, Christ, she’s sassy. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she’s a teenager if it’s this bad at seven.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be too terrible. Or, if it is, you can always send her over to Brooke’s to get a little reprieve.”

  He laughed and took a sip of his wine. “I’m sure she’d love that, especially considering she’ll have another one to worry about too.”

  Claire’s eyes widened slightly. “She and Dan are expecting?”

  “Yeah, any day now, I think. Sophie’s thrilled. She can’t wait to be a big sister.”

  “I can imagine. I remember when she’d play with her dolls, pretending to be a mommy. She probably thinks it’ll be the same thing. Doesn’t think about all the crying and interruptions and what a pain in the ass us younger siblings can be.” She grinned, and it hit him right in his chest. He couldn’t explain what it did to him that she still remembered those inconsequential details about his daughter.

  “She would’ve liked to see you.”

  Her head snapped up, the fork full of her pasta halfway to her mouth. “She remembers me?”

  His eyes softened, taking in this beautiful woman in front of him. She never did understand the effect she had on people. “Of course she does. Maybe, if the storm keeps up, you’ll be here long enough to see her.”

  She stared at him, her eyes speaking of everything she tried so hard to hide. He’d always been good at reading her. “You think that’d be a good idea?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because...because...” She gestured between the two of them. “We’re not...a thing anymore.”

  “We were more than ‘a thing,’ Claire. I asked you to be my wife.”

  “I know what we were, Logan.” Her eyes had hardened, the set of her jaw belying the anger she tried hard to keep a lid on.

  He took a deep breath and a drink of his wine, nearly emptying his glass. He watched as she did the same. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “How exactly did you think it’d be?”

  Shrugging, he twisted his glass by the stem, looking down at the table. “I don’t know...dinner with friends? Talk about our lives...catch up. I just...I miss you and was hoping for some semblance of normalcy.”

  She didn’t say it, didn’t have to. The look she gave him spoke volumes. After what they’d shared together, normalcy wasn’t in their hemisphere of reality, and maybe never would be.

  Not deterred, he tried a different tactic. “Are you seeing anyone?” He had no idea why that had been the different tactic he’d chosen. And, in fact, hated himself a little for asking it. He didn’t really want to know, couldn’t stand to think of her with someone else. It tore at his insides, making his fists clench and his back rigid.

  “I’m...” She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to change her mind at the last minute. Sighing, she continued, “I’ve gone out wit
h someone a couple times, but it’s nothing serious.”

  It should have made him feel better that it wasn’t serious, but just that she was seeing someone reiterated the fact that she was free to do so. If it wasn’t this guy, it was going to be some other fucker down the line.

  “What about you?”

  “Ah, no. Nope.” He shook his head, refilling his glass of wine before topping hers off. “I tried a while back. I’d gone out with this woman a few times and made the mistake of having her over for dinner. Sophie...did not like her.” He chuckled, remembering the absolute fucking nightmare it had been—he could laugh about it now, but at the time, he’d been livid with his daughter. Though he’d had no right to be, and he knew that now. “It was a disaster, really. Sophie spent the entire time making it adamantly clear my date was not welcome.”

  “Oh, no. What’d she do?”

  Claire was leaning toward him across the table, her elbow resting on the top, chin in her hand, her eyes sparking with interest. He didn’t even care that it wasn’t for him. He’d take her undivided attention in whatever form she’d give it.

  “Well, let’s see. There was playing beauty salon, which wouldn’t be so bad except I could hear the yelps Sophie was causing, and the brush had nearly enough hair in it to make a wig by the time she was done. She ‘accidentally’ spilled half a bottle of Tabasco on my date’s dinner. Gave her a bear hug...”

  Claire frowned. “What’s so bad about that?”

  “My date was wearing white and Sophie had spaghetti sauce all over her hands and face from dinner.”

  He could tell she was trying to hold in her laughter. Even though the wine had given her a beautiful flush, more crimson pooled in her cheeks, and her shoulders shook with her restraint.

  “It’s okay. You can laugh.”

  And she did too. Let out the full-belly laugh he loved so much. Her laughter was infectious, and if you were within hearing distance when she got lost in it, you couldn’t walk away without a smile on your face.

  “Oh, God, that’s priceless.” She wiped at her eyes now, removing the tears that had gathered there. “Maybe...maybe she didn’t mean to. Maybe they all really were accidents.”

  He raised a single eyebrow. “Please. Sophie knew exactly what she was doing.” He waved a hand, dismissing it. “It was my fault, anyway. She got in trouble, of course, but I shouldn’t have forced her into that so soon. It wasn’t fair. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  But he did. He knew exactly what he’d been thinking. It had been over a year since Claire had called off their engagement, and he knew if he didn’t—couldn’t—have her, he needed to work on getting on with his life. He wasn’t dependent on people—had never been—but neither did he want to spend his life alone. Being with Claire had been the best time in his life, save for when Sophie was born, and he didn’t realize how desperately he wanted it until it had been too late.

  And sitting across the table from Claire now, her guard down from the alcohol, her laughter still ringing in his ears, he realized he’d do anything for a second chance with her.

  Chapter Five

  The walk back to Logan’s condo was much more challenging than the one going to the restaurant had been. For one thing, two more inches of snow had fallen in the time they’d been inside. For another, Claire had lost track of how many glasses of wine she’d consumed. All she knew was she felt warm and relaxed and...happy.

  Everything felt normal. Being there with him, laughing and talking with him. Hell, even flirting with him. And now, as she clutched the crook of his arm while he led them as fast as he could to the safety of his apartment building, it didn’t feel strange, somehow.

  It felt right.

  Good thing she was tipsy or that probably would’ve sent a jolt of pain straight to her stomach, thinking about how right they had been together, and how that was no longer a possibility. But as of now, all she felt was the pleasant cocoon of liquid courage. And she was damn well enjoying it.

  They ducked into the warm lobby of his building, hurrying to the elevator. Once inside, he leaned against the wall next to her, looking down at her with amusement dancing in those pale green eyes.

  “What?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  She scoffed, rolling her eyes and waving a hand to dismiss him. “I’m not drunk.”

  “Really.” The look he gave her spoke far more than the single word could, or the flat tone he’d delivered it in.

  “Yes, really.”

  “I think you’re forgetting who you’re with. I know you, and I know how you are when you’re drunk.”

  At the ding of the elevator, she followed him down the hall to his door, then inside, tossing her purse on the first surface she found before shrugging out of her coat.

  “And how am I when I’m drunk, Mr. Know It All?”

  She was trying to get out of her shoes, preoccupied with the task and how much concentration it was taking to complete it, so she didn’t realize his head was so close until he spoke. His voice was low but right there, his breath fluttering wisps of hair around her face.

  “Well, for starters, your cheeks are flushed.”

  She wanted to inhale, to breathe him in and keep him locked up inside her so she’d always have a part of him, since it was clear she couldn’t have him. It wasn’t something he was able to give, and she’d gotten tired of fighting for it. She rolled her eyes, trying not to let him know how much he was affecting her. “It’s cold outside. You know with my pasty skin, a breeze makes me flushed.”

  “A breeze...among other things.” His voice had dropped even further, and it was doing things to her body she absolutely did not want to acknowledge. He brushed the back of his finger along her cheek, and she fought back a shudder. “And your skin is not pasty. It’s beautiful.”

  She refrained—barely—from rolling her eyes again. It was a natural deflection mechanism, and she didn’t want to admit how much his compliment got to her.

  “You’ve also been giggly.”

  “Giggly?”

  “Yes, giggly. You laughed about everything, and believe me, I’m not that funny. And you talked loud enough so the couple all the way in the back of the restaurant knew exactly what you told that dick of a contractor at the last build you worked at.”

  Oh, God. That was embarrassing. She tried to think back to what else they’d talked about and couldn’t remember anything. Had she always been a loud talker when she got drunk? And why the hell had no one bothered to tell her that before? Some friends she had.

  “And you haven’t taken your hands off me for the last two hours.”

  “That’s not—” The sharp look he gave her cut off her protesting, and she glanced down, finding her hand clutching his forearm as she’d tried to balance to get her shoes off. But that had just been because she’d needed help, not because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself. And it had been slippery outside, so obviously she’d reached to him for help. And in the restaurant, when she touched his arms, she...oh, hell. She snatched her hand away, forcing it to her side.

  “Don’t.” He was right there, and the way his body loomed over hers, the hulking expanse of his shoulders nearly blocking out everything else in her vision, would’ve been imposing if she didn’t know how gentle he could be. “I want you to touch me. I loved when you’d get like this.” He leaned in, his nose grazing the bare skin at the wide neck of her sweater. “How it seemed like you couldn’t touch enough of me. How you wanted to almost absorb me.” His lips, barely there, skimmed up her neck. It was the only place they were touching, and it was so fucking erotic, she wanted to collapse right there in the entryway of his condo.

  She was forcing herself to keep her hands off him, her fists clenched at her sides so she didn’t do what she really wanted, which was to unwrap his scarf, peel that jacket
off, slip her hands beneath the t-shirt he wore and run her hands over muscles she was sure were still well-worked and defined. Strong. Hard. Instead of doing that, she closed her eyes, managing to whisper, “We...we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because...because...” Her argument died in her throat when his tongue traced her pulse point and then his teeth bit into the juncture of her shoulder and neck and the scruff on his face brushed against her delicate skin, and oh God, he didn’t play fair. “Logan.”

  He groaned, his hands covering the expanse of her lower back, his chest now pressed right up against her so she could feel the vibrations of his voice against her breasts. “Jesus, I’ve missed you saying my name like that.”

  And then it was like a dam broke. Hands were everywhere, clawing and dragging and clutching. And they were stumbling, fumbling toward his bedroom. They made it as far as the living room before need and want took over. They hadn’t bothered to turn on a light when they’d gotten in, and the single bulb he always left on over the stove didn’t reach farther than the kitchen and entryway. She couldn’t even appreciate the dips and valleys of the carved muscles on his chest and abdomen and arms, but she could feel them. And, God, did she feel them. She ran her hands over every inch of him she could while he kissed and sucked, memorizing her body the same way she was his.

  It was too much and not enough, and when he finally settled between her legs and sank inside her welcoming flesh, both of them groaning, she knew she’d never feel something as perfect as this with anyone but him.

  If she wasn’t high on alcohol and adrenaline and lust, the thought would’ve knocked her out, punching through her carefully extracted walls. But now she just wanted faster, harder, deeper, and he gave it to her ten-fold.