Tracy Wolff - Deserving of Luke

Frustrated, out-of-sorts, his earlier enjoyment of the day completely gone, Logan pushed open the door to the diner. And got a hell of a start when nearly every face turned toward him, the low buzz of conversation coming to an abrupt halt.

Okay. Never comfortable being the obvious topic of conversation he reminded himself of all the positive reasons to living in a town where he knew well over half the population. There was always someone to talk to, always someone around to lend a hand.

Even with the good points outweighing the bad, it didn’t mean it was always easy. Especially not when people were interested to see what his reaction would be to the knowledge that Paige, and her son, were back in town. Well, they’d learn soon enough it was no big deal. He and Paige were nothing to each other anymore.

Glancing around the diner with a friendly smile, he breathed a small sigh of relief when his gaze landed on Joni. There was nothing like a date with one woman to lay old gossip about another to rest.

Grinning for real this time, he started toward her table. There was nothing wrong with him, a hamburger, a piece of peach pie and some time with Joni wouldn’t fix.

Focused on his target, Logan didn’t see Paige until he was almost on top of her. And when it finally registered on him that the pretty woman at the next table was the grown-up version of his high-school sweetheart, it was too late to do anything but stare.

And stare he did, his mind cataloguing all the differences between this woman and the girl he remembered. Her platinum-blond hair was a lot shorter, cut into a sassy style that suited the woman, but not the vulnerable young girl who’d once confided to him that she liked him because she didn’t have to play a part for him.

Her heart-shaped face was thinner, her cheekbones more prominent, her green eyes darker and more wary than they had ever been. Only her lips were the same—lush and a little lopsided, their raspberry color as tempting as ever.

She was wearing a violet tank top that showed off curves much more lush than he remembered and, though he told himself to move on, to pull out a chair at Joni’s table, he didn’t move. Instead, he stood there, willing Paige to look at him.

At first, he didn’t think she was going to, thought she was going to pretend to be oblivious to his presence. But as he contemplated doing something stupid to get her attention, she met his gaze with her own unflinching stare. For one long, indefinable second, it was as if they were back in high school, when it had been only the two of them no matter how many other people were in the room.

He heard her catch her breath, felt his own hitch in his chest. His hand reached out to her of its own volition and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to trace the familiar dusting of freckles on her cheeks, as if nine years and countless arguments didn’t lay between them.

He started to say something, stopped. Tried again, stopped again. Then the moment was gone, her attention diverted by a young voice asking, “Mom, can I get my milkshake now? I ate all my green beans.”

Her expression appeared stricken before she turned her attention to her son. For a second Logan couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then he looked toward the boy sitting across from her, his black curls gleaming under the restaurant’s warm, yellow lights, and Logan’s entire world caved in.

He felt his jaw slacken and his eyes widen as a thousand different questions exploded in his head. As he looked over Paige’s son, Logan told himself that it couldn’t be. That he had to be mistaken. That Paige wouldn’t have his child without telling him.

The words circled his brain, a particularly ineffectual mantra. Because even as he was talking to himself, even as he was trying to convince himself that he was wrong, that he was making a huge mistake, he knew he wasn’t. This child—this lively, eight-year-old boy with the silver eyes and small birthmark on his right cheek—was his son and he didn’t even know the kid’s name.

The realization was a blow that nearly brought him to his knees. Shock and sorrow warred within him, followed by the beginnings of a rage so powerful it made him shake.

His child had existed in the world for eight years and he hadn’t known.

His child had grown and laughed, hurt and played, for eight years and he hadn’t known.

His child had—

“Hello, Logan.”

Screw pleasantries. There was only one thing he wanted from her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Paige raised one blond eyebrow, smiled serenely, coolly as if the same moments that had just blown Logan’s world to hell and back had barely affected her.

“I did tell you. You chose not to believe me.”

That was it. No explanation, no plea for forgiveness, no acknowledgment of guilt. A few simple words that did nothing to lower his blood pressure, and nothing to set this situation to rights.

“You know that’s a bunch of bull—”

“No milkshake today,” she announced to her son, to their son.

As much as Logan resented her interruption, the still-functioning part of his brain appreciated it. This was not the place—in full view of the curious patrons, of his date…of their son—to give vent to the rage boiling inside him.

“We’ll get one next time,” she continued, speaking to their boy. “We need to get back soon or Aunt Penny’s going to send the cavalry after us.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “There’s no cavalry anymore, Mom. Now the army uses tanks.” He turned to Logan. “Who are you?”

Logan had no idea where to begin to answer that, so he kept quiet. Let Paige field the question.

“He’s just someone I used to know. Back when I was in high school.” She reached for her purse. “And the fact that there’s no cavalry anymore is an even better reason for us to head home. Can you imagine a tank rolling down Main Street?”

“That’d be cool! Do you think it would point its big gun at the diner?”

“I can only hope.” With that cryptic comment, Paige stood, dropped some money on the table then herded her child toward the door.

Damn it, the child was his. Not only hers, his, too. And he had no clue what to call him. “What’s his name?” Logan demanded, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. Not that he cared. Worrying about what others thought seemed worse than stupid when he was watching his child walking away from him without a backward glance.

She turned then, and it was the first hint he had she might be experiencing the same anger he was. “None of your damn business.”

Then she was gone, leaving behind a silence so complete that the slamming of the door echoed like a gunshot.

PAIGE COULD BARELY CONTROL the fury as she headed toward her car.

How dare Logan try to embarrass her in public?

How dare he accuse her of not telling him about Luke when she had begged him to believe that she was carrying his child?

How dare he pick this fight in front of Luke?

If she had ever needed more proof of what an abysmal father he would make, she’d gotten it. He hadn’t cared about Luke’s feelings, hadn’t cared about anything but his own righteous outrage. Bastard. The next time he came around—if there was a next time—she would run him off with a baseball bat if she had to, small-town cop or not. No way was that son of a bitch getting anywhere near her son. Not now. Not after all this time. She’d see him in hell first.

“Mom, slow down!”

She’d been so locked in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed Luke scrambling along beside her, his short legs working overtime in an effort to keep up.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” She stopped abruptly, tapped Luke on the nose. “I forget sometimes that your legs aren’t as long as mine.”