Page 31 of One More Chance
“It’s a hockey jersey. They’re made for that,” he smiled.
Charlotte slipped her arms into the oversized sleeves and the jersey fell loosely over her body like a dress.
“Charlotte, hear me out,” he said.
Charlotte pursed her lips and looked up at Logan standing in front of her in his t-shirt. His hat was covered in an inch of snow and she noticed the goosebumps prickling up over his toned biceps.
“Logan, it was the past. We were kids,” she sighed.
“We were kids, but look at us now. I mean, we’re still acting like children.”
Charlotte knew that he was right. She was acting like a high school kid who didn’t get to borrow the family car. “It was me. You were trying to explain, and I walked away.”
“Yeah, and I should’ve been a man, but instead I spent the whole night avoiding you like we were at a school dance.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. “I guess we’re both guilty then.”
“How about we help ourselves to a good old-fashioned Chance Rapids special and maybe we can clear a few things up between us? I mean, we do have to walk down the aisle together next month.”
It took Charlotte a second to compute, but then she grinned. “I haven’t had a beavertail in years. Is the G-spot still open?”
Logan looked at his watch. “Yep.”
“Deal,” Charlotte reached out her hand, an ingrained businesswoman reflex. Logan laughed and shook it.
She winced; the first step almost took her breath away. Logan reached his arm across her back and Charlotte felt a rush between her legs as his hand protectively gripped her body.
“Let me help you.”
Charlotte nodded and reached her arm behind Logan, her hand finding its place on his shoulder as they shuffled down the street in the accumulating snow, heading somewhere she never thought she’d be again, with someone she never expected to see again.
Chapter 14
THE G-SPOT HADN’T CHANGEDin fifteen years. The same orange Formica tables flanked the dining area and the sign for beaver tails was still above the kitchen cut-out; although the price had been crudely crossed out a few times with a marker. In 2004, Logan and Charlotte, back when she was Billie Jo, had spent many nights at these very tables, working on the economics assignment that had brought them together. They had shared many of the G-Spot’s signature pastry, the deep-fried cinnamon goodness of the Beavertail.
“Well, how about that? As I live and breathe, Logan Brush here in my store.” Muriel, the woman who was old fifteen years ago, stood grinning, coffee pot in hand.
