Page 17 of The Uncomplicated Café
“Mia’s home?” CeCe brightened at the mention of their mutual childhood friend.
“Yeah, she kidnapped me from the airport. If I hadn’t already been planning to come see you the second I stepped off the plane, she would’ve dragged me back, by force, if necessary.”
“And that’s why I love her,” CeCe laughed. “But I’m glad drastic measures weren’t needed.”
“I meant it when I said I’m sorry for putting you in this position. I realize it’s asking a lot. So, thanks. Sincerely. I appreciate you helping me out.”
“Anything for a friend.” She smiled the kind of smile that made her warm, velvety eyes sparkle behind her glasses and her seductive dimple deepen. The smile that made his chest squeeze around his lungs, stealing his breath every time.
A friend…
That’s all he was. And it had to be enough.
Because anything more would eventually ruin the best, most fulfilling and soul-quenching relationship in his life—a treasure too great to risk.
Chapter Ten
LOGAN
Logan rakeda few fallen leaves from the flower bed with his blackened fingers. He didn’t bother wearing gloves, preferring to feel the warm, gritty soil against his calloused skin. The grooves he’d created in the dirt released a deep, earthy scent that mingled with the salty ocean spray.
He’d lived at 1109 West State Street for several years, caretaking the property for Abby’s late husband—and his old air force buddy—Donnie. He’d groomed the same acre of land overlooking the ocean, with its lush gardens and breathtaking view, but never quite appreciated its beauty until Abby opened his eyes, inspiring him to enjoy life again. He owed everything to Abby. And he’d do anything to make her happy. So why couldn’t he make a decision about Max and his dad?
As he reached farther into the sweet-smelling gardenia shrub, his fingertips hit something hard and smooth. Several things, actually.
Logan gently bent back the branches, revealing a small stockpile of Max’s treasures. Bits of sea glass, shells, interestingly colored rocks and artfully twisted sticks of driftwood. At the sight of each twig and stone, memories flooded Logan’s mind of countless trips to the beach over the last fewmonths. Beachcombing, building sandcastles, tossing a football in the frothy surf. The sound of Max’s laughter, the brilliance of his smile, the way he enhanced the joy of every moment—Logan could never quite find the words to capture what Max meant to him.
He never imagined he’d become a father, not after his injury in the air force or all the emotional shrapnel he’d endured as a result. But now, he couldn’t fathom an existence without Max. Raising a child had reframed everything in his life. He saw the world through a new lens—a new and improved lens. And it made him strive to be a better man, both physically—which had led him to pursue a nontraditional therapy treatment for his muscle spasms that seemed to be working—and emotionally. Was it so wrong to want Max to be a permanent part of their lives, of their family?
Even as the question crossed his mind, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Declaring Sam Bailey deceased would change everything for Max. Perhaps forcing him to face a reality he wasn’t ready to accept. Maybe they needed to be more patient, to give Max more time. Or maybe Max would never be fully ready to grieve his father’s death. What if now was the right timing after all?
The soft padding of footsteps on the grass grabbed his attention. From his kneeling position, he turned to find Abby standing behind him.
“Can we talk?” she asked softly, tiptoeing across the invisible line of tension lingering between them.
In response, Logan stood and, with one long stride, closed the gap and took her in his arms. Bending down, he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lilac. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, relishing the feel of her body against his, of her intoxicating nearness. Feeling disconnected from Abby—even for less than twenty-four hours—had felt like cutting off a limb.
“Me, too.” She slid her arms around his waist, clinging to him as if they’d been apart for years. “I hated not talking, but I didn’t know what to say.” She pulled back, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “I think it’s because I knew you were right. Having Sam Bailey declared deceased isn’t a decision we should rush. If I’m honest, I was being selfish.” Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced at the ground. “I told myself it was best for Max, but I don’t know that for sure. I only know it’s what I want.”
At her confession, Logan’s chest swelled with heightened love and admiration for his future wife—for her honesty, humility, and sincere heart. He’d never met someone who loved so fiercely or who fought so hard for others.
He tenderly tucked his fingers beneath her chin and raised her gaze to meet his again. “It’s what I want, too. And I may not have the right answer yet, but I know we’ll find it together.” Still cupping her chin, he brought her lips to his. They tasted sweet yet salty with the sharp tang of tears.
He kissed her harder, pressing his fingertips against her jaw and cheekbone, a willing conduit for her pain. If he could, he’d channel her sadness away and take on her agony, feeling it more deeply on his own.
Logan wasn’t sure how long they’d stood there, finding comfort in each other’s embrace, when the squeaking of hinges broke through the stillness, drawing their focus toward the sound.
French doors—slightly warped from decades of damp sea air—creaked open, and their new guest stepped onto the balcony overhead.
“Sorry about that,” Abby said quietly, although Logan doubted the man could hear them.
“For what?” He matched her soft tone. “The interruption? Or breaking our no-guests-until-after-the-wedding rule?” He grinned, intending his questions to be playful, not accusatory.
“Both. I shouldn’t have invited him to stay without asking you first.”
“I know you had your reasons. What’s his story, anyway?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure. He’s shown up at CeCe’s every morning for several days. From what I’ve seen, and what CeCe’s shared, he rarely speaks to anyone. It’s like he’s waiting for someone—or something—but I don’t know what.”
