Page 101 of Defensive Desire

Logan's hand finds the small of my back, steady and reassuring as my parents reach us.

"Hello, Emma," my mother says, her eyes taking in the decorated space, the children's artwork, and finally settling on Logan's towering presence beside me. "This is quite impressive."

"Thank you," I manage, genuinely surprised by the lack of qualifiers in her compliment. "Mom, Dad, this is Logan Kane."

Logan extends his hand, somehow transforming from intimidating enforcer to perfect gentleman in seconds.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you."

My father shakes his hand enthusiastically. "That story you read earlier? The kids were captivated. You've got quite the theatrical talent, young man."

"You saw that?" I ask, startled.

"We've been here for most of it," my mother admits. "Your father insisted we arrive early to get good seats right over there."

She points beyond the door of the café to the corridor as my father smiles sheepishly. "Wanted to see my daughter in action without intruding. See what she's really like in the wild."

My mother's eyes drift to where Logan's hand still rests protectively at my back. I expect disapproval, but instead, she says quietly, "That's right. We've been watching. You two work well together."

I gawk like a goldfish with ear trouble, wondering if my brain just short-circuited.

Did my mother just give me a compliment?Usa compliment?

"Emma's the brains of this operation," Logan says, his deep voice warm with pride. "I just lift the heavy stuff."

"And read bedtime stories, apparently," my mother observes, a hint of unexpected humor in her tone.

Logan grins. "Only the good ones your daughter chooses for me."

As my father pulls Logan into a conversation about hockey, my mother steps closer to me, her thick perfume surrounding me.

"I didn't understand before," she says softly. "This dream of yours. I thought you were being impulsive."

Impulsive? That's a stretch.

"But now?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"Now I see you've built something real." She adjusts her pearls, and looks around the room. "Something I was too afraid to try with my flower shop."

It's not quite an apology, but perhaps something more meaningful than that.

It'srecognition.

"Maybe it's not too late, Mom," I suggest. "For your dream."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling slightly. "Perhaps not. At any rate, I'm... proud of you, Emma. You've found your path. Found your path and you've followed it, dear. And now, it seems you have someone who walks it with you."

Her gaze shifts to Logan, who's laughing at something my father has said. "He seems to understand what matters to you."

"He does," I say simply.

My parents don't stay long, but before they leave, Grandpa Walt appears, puffing his chest with pride as he offers to show them "the inner workings of Emma's empire." He guides them around the space, pointing out features with theatrical flourish.

When they finally prepare to depart, my mother surprises me with a brief hug.

"We'll see you both for dinner soon," she says, and it sounds like a promise rather than an obligation.

As they disappear into the crowd, Logan returns to my side.

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