I look down. “I felt like you did, that you decided to just give up.” My shoulders slowly lift into a shrug. “It’s understandable. I couldn’t blame you. I couldn’t ask you to take this on. It’s a lot to ask.”
His boots slide across the floor until they’re in my view. His closeness knocks the air out of my lungs. I continue to look down, staring at the round peep of his scuffed-up Tims. Logan crooks a finger under my chin, lifting my head back until he’s fully gazing at every emotionally-shattered feature etched on my face, and I witness all the wretched pain stamped on his.
His eyes take on a look of sorrow, of compassion, of regret, of love. “I hate seeing you like this and I hate even more that I’m responsible for it.” He releases the finger under my chin and frames the right side of my profile with his hand. I weaken against his touch, fluttering my eyes closed at the comfort found in the connection.
“I’m never giving up on what we have, Jenna.”
I know it’s wrong to ask this of him, but his closeness, his touch compels me to ask anyway. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Before I can utter another word, Logan’s lips are on mine, binding our tiny pact. My breath, my lips, my tongue, my teeth, everything I have becomes a part of this kiss, inhaling and tasting and feeling and reveling in what I’ve been longing for since the very first time our lips disconnected so long ago. The first one was purely chemical, lust and desire. But this one? This one is passion and longing and promises and fireworks, fucking fireworks. As his tongue gently dives into my mouth, dancing with mine, my body falls into his. With one hand still on my face, he snakes his free arm around my waist to keep me in place, still gripping onto the item in his hand.
I try to keep my composure but fail as I moan against his mouth and lift onto my toes. My arms find their way around his neck. My towel—which hasn’t fully dropped because it’s pinched between us—has slipped, exposing the swell of my breast. We’re hungry for more, starved by the time we’ve spent denying and repressing our feelings for one another. Logan drops whatever item was in his hand, his fingers gripping into the small of my back, tugging me ever closer to him.
The hand that was framed around my face is now gently fisting into my hair. Small gulps of air between kisses, our tongues twirl, entwine, and lash, growing thirstier for one another. He groans he wants me, and I moan I want him too. Our sounds turn this slow burn into an inferno. In one swoop he lifts me and carries me to the bed, our lips still molded to one another.
My back flush against the mattress, the towel loosens—exposing my breast and peaking nipples. A small groan rumbles deep within his throat. Logan drops his head; his tongue skims over my nipple before fully sucking in my small breast. I tilt my head back, raking my teeth over the flesh of my bottom lip to savor the aching pleasure. My fingers dig into his scalp as his hand finds its way down between my thighs; teasing, he circles his palm over my nub.
We ignore the knock on the door. It’s probably Charlie, checking in on us. I lift Logan’s head with my hand and bring his lips back to mine. Another knock. I groan out, “Leave us alone, Charlie.”
“It’s not Charlie.”
I freeze. My eyelids fly open. “Who’s that?” Logan asks, whispering.
“My father,” I say, scrambling out from beneath Logan. “Just a second, Daddy,” I shout out, running over to the dresser and rummaging through a drawer. I grab the first ankle-length nightgown I can find and toss it on. I look over at Logan. He’s up on his feet, his hand shoved in his jeans, trying to adjust himself. There’s no helping him right now, and he curses under his breath when he realizes there’s no hiding his erection. Then he lightly jogs over to the object he dropped earlier—it’s a large, square-shaped item covered in newspaper. I smile at that little thought, and he holds onto it, using it to guard the bulge currently struggling against his jeans.
I calm my breathing, and then call for my father to come in. When he enters, his eyes widen. I’m not sure what’s more shocking to him—the fact that I have a man in my room or the fact that there is actually a man in my room.
Dad straightens his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Jenna,” he says in a fatherly tone.
“Daddy,” I say, mocking his serious address. Logan snorts, which makes me giggle.
My father doesn’t find this as amusing as we do; I can tell by the very high, arched brow.
“Dad, this is Logan. He’s my…” I falter, looking over at Logan to see what we are exactly.
Logan smiles. “Boyfriend,” he finishes for me. Logan then stands and walks over to Dad, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McDaniel.”
My father shakes Logan’s hand firmly. “Pleasure is all mine, son.”
And then the awkward silence descends. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. Logan is standing beside my father, still trying desperately to cover his boner. Dad is staring at me. “You needed something?” I finally ask him.
“Yes. I wanted to invite you to dinner Saturday night with your mother and me.”
“Oh,” I say. The thought of having dinner with my mother is not very appealing.
“You can bring Logan if you’d like,” Dad adds.
Logan looks up at me for confirmation. I gently smile, indicating I’d like it if he joined me. He nods. Then he faces my father, straightening his stance. “I’ll be there, sir. Thank you.”
“Very well. Saturday at six. I’ll have my assistant make the reservations and send you the information, Jenna.”
I smile at him. “Thank you.”
He gently grins at me, nods at Logan, and then pivots to leave my room. Then, as if he’s forgotten something, he looks over his shoulder and grips the doorknob. “I’ll just leave this open,” he mumbles, then walks off.
Logan and I wait until we hear him halfway down the staircase before we finally look at one another and burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was completely awkward,” I force out, gasping for air.
“Tell me about it,” Logan blows out, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Then his shoulders relax as he lets out a sigh. “I should really get back to work anyway. I’m sure someone is looking for me.”
As much as I don’t want him to go—I just got him back—I know he has to. “You’re probably right.”
“This is for you.” He walks over. “It came in yesterday.” I grab the package he’s been holding. It’s pretty light, but large in size. Definitely not a CD. It’s wrapped in an old newspaper article. “You really need to invest in some wrapping paper,” I say.
He shrugs. “I figured I’d keep the tradition going.”
Shaking my head, I focus back on the item in my hand. I shift on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and then tear it open.
It’s an eight-by-ten personalized photo album. The black gloss cover has a metallic silver inscription: Jenna’s Art. I squint my eyes in confusion, wondering what that means as I open it. The first page is a personalized note in black ink from Logan.
You see what you did here?
You, my Jersey Girl, created art.
I told you. You’re stronger than you think.
Love,
Logan
I flip to the next page. The first image is one I took when Logan and I were lying down on the trail looking up. The sun is casting down through the branches and leaves of the trees. It looks just as beautiful in the photo as it did in person. The next photo is a close-up of a baby deer, drinking by the creek. The fur of the deer is more vibrant than I remember; its reddish tone bursts out of the page. It is the focal point of the entire image.