Deanna Talcott - Marrying For A Mom

He still carried his six-foot-four frame with the same self-confidence. His hair—one shade darker than tobacco—was now sheared straight, and closely cropped. His angular face and thick jaw complemented brows that were perfectly matched slashes over cobalt eyes. His nose was narrow at the bridge, his nostrils, wide and thick. His mouth was full, and had a tendency to twitch when amused.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Whitney managed to say as Logan started moving around the counter.

He stopped, turning on his heel. From behind a rack of teddy bear barrettes and hair clips, Logan shimmied a glance in her direction.

Whitney noted the faint smile lines fanning from the corners of his eyes and shivered. He was despicably good-looking, that’s what he was. Despicably good-looking.

“Whitney…?” he said as a flicker of recognition sparked behind his eyes. His mouth had worked its way around her name, whispering it softly, as if in disbelief. “Oh, my God, Whit…is it you?”

She nodded slowly, her breath shallow. She briefly debated whether she should offer up an apology for what had happened all those years ago or just forget it. She wondered how much he remembered.

“Damn. Why didn’t you say something?”

She guiltily lifted both shoulders. “I don’t know. When you came in the door, I didn’t think you’d ever look at me. Really look, I mean. And then I didn’t know if I should…because…”

“Whitney. C’mon,” he chided. Then he took her in. From the top of her professionally highlighted, chin-length cut, to the gold bracelet on her wrist, and the pearl studs in her ears. His gaze lingered on the understated elegance of her sweater and matching slacks before his jaw slid off center. “I’m looking,” he said. “And I mean really, really looking,” he emphasized.

Whitney’s smile grew more tentative. “It’s been a long time, Logan.”

“It has. Too long, Whit.”

Still, the uncertainty of their past hung between them. Harsh words, threats, and accusations had all been rolled up into their last goodbye. It had been a nasty scene. Logan had been outraged, Whitney defensive. To make matters worse, her ex-husband had offered up a dozen feeble excuses as to why Logan’s books didn’t balance and his petty cash was missing. It had been the only time Whitney had ever heard Logan raise his voice; it had been the only time Whitney had ever let anyone but Gram see her cry.

They both stood there, awkwardly, both unsure of what to say.

“Hey, look—”

“I always wanted to—”

They both laughed self-consciously, both biting back apologies.

“Okay. This is crazy. Look. I feel like I should hug you or something…” He lifted his arms, awkwardly, as if he didn’t know the correct protocol for when old friends, who were no longer friends, let time patch up their differences.

He glanced down at the glass counter standing between them.

For a second, a long-held fantasy went winging through Whitney’s head. Logan, a superhero, would leap over the barriers that separated them, then sweep her into his arms. Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive. He could fix anything, he could move mountains, he could mend hearts.

Shaking herself free of the daydream, Whitney took it upon herself to make something happen: she slid from the stool and extended her hand.

For a moment, everything seemed disjointed. Like pieces that were trying to fit back together again. Her gold bracelet glittered beneath the overhead fluorescent lighting, and her French manicured nails made her fingers appear long and slender and cultured.

They both knew she wasn’t. Cultured, that is. In Melville, she’d been raised on the “other” side of the tracks.

His hand reached for hers. The bones in his wrist were thick, his knuckles dimpled. The smattering of dark hair over the back of his hand was sexy, evoking powerful images of strength and wealth and confidence.

They had no business joining hands—and she had no business feeling the way she did about him. Especially after everything that had happened.

“Whitney.” Logan clasped her fingers, then covered the back of her hand with his palm as she came around the counter. A liquid warmth spread through her, convincing her the past was forgotten, that he was genuinely pleased to see her. “You look—” his gaze slipped down her front, all the way to her skimmers “—great.” When he lifted his eyes, their gaze caught and held. “Wonderful,” he amended. “Absolutely, positively stunning.”

Whitney’s smile softened, and she felt a rush of heat, from the inside out.

“You know,” he reminded, “we’ve got a lot of history together.”

“And not all of it good.” She couldn’t help herself, the truth had to come out.

Logan grimaced, then gave her fingers a light squeeze before reluctantly loosening them. “Hey. Remember the time we connected on that pitching mound at the company picnic, and my watch did a number on your chin?” he asked, intentionally changing the subject.

Her forefinger automatically flicked over the spot. “How could I forget three stitches and a tetanus?”

He critically eyed the tiny white scar, and his hands moved as if they had a will of their own, to capture her jaw between thumb and forefinger, and angle the spot closer for his inspection. “I practically mowed you down, going after that fly ball.” Logan distinctly remembered how she’d crumpled beneath him, all soft, in a flurry of fighting limbs. The scent of leather gloves and dirt and diamond dust, and the thwunk as her chin connected with his wrist. But the worst was, after they’d collided, her husband yanked her up off the ground, dusted her off and told Logan not to worry, no damage. He’d had to remind himself to forget it, to tell himself it was none of his business, that she was married and that she belonged to someone else. Then he’d had to beat back the regrets. “The insurance cover three stitches and a tetanus?”

Whitney started to shake her head, but stopped, not wanting to break from his touch. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

The intensity of his blue gaze held her, as if he were trying to absorb her and look into her soul. A tremulous anxiety clutched Whitney, making her falter, making her breathing erratic.

“Logan?” she finally whispered.

“It…um…it left a mark,” he murmured, refocusing on her chin, as his thumb gently flicked over the tiny cleft.

“It barely shows.”

His fingers fell away. “Still…the physical evidence remains. We’ve had more brushes with fate than any two people should have to endure.”

The moment—and the references—were awkward.

Whitney’s smile thinned. Logan deftly changed the subject. Again.

“Damn, I’ve driven by this place a hundred times. I can’t believe you own it.”

“Lease it,” Whitney qualified.

“So…” he said softly, considering. “You’re the teddy bear lady.”

Whitney tipped her head. “Please. Don’t you dare say it’s cute. I love it, but it’s a business and it pays the bills. I have every kind and type of teddy bear you could ever imagine.”

“I guess you do.” Logan swept the room with an all-inclusive look. It was jam-packed with teddy bears. Teddy bear toothbrushes swung on a revolving display, and teddy bear books were wedged on teddy bear bookshelves. There were teddy bear clocks, jewelry, stationery and stickers. Teddy bear erasers, pencils, pens and rulers. Framed prints, and bath accessories. Even shower curtains, regular curtains, blankets and rugs. He chuckled, his smile riding a tad bit higher on the left. “But I never intended to say ‘cute.’ I’m impressed. It’s a great concept. When I look around, I’m inclined to buy the store out.”