Page 27 of Never Sleigh Never
Mmm… right there. I rock my hips. My fingers sliding over soft, cool cotton. That feels so good. More. I need more. Yes. Logan.
My eyes snap open. As the room comes into focus, a wave of disappointment crashes over me, and I fling the pillow aside. Who let Logan into my dream? Maybe it wasn’t really him. I think it was only him because he was who I was with last night—dirty blond hair, hazel eyes you could get lost in for weeks on end. Son of a bitch. Why the hell am I having sex dreams about Logan Crawford? Clearly, the lack of non-self-induced orgasms in my life is making me delusional. There’s no way that the way he runs his fingers through his strands is sexy. I blame my pebbled nipples on a cold breeze and not his dimple that could launch a thousand bad decisions or his dark gray Henley that clings to his chest like a second skin. Not sexy one bit. I will not fantasize about any of that any longer. Who am I kidding? I’m totally going to fantasize about it.
If I had almost kissed anyone else in Mount Holly, I’d be on the phone with Willa and Sloane giving them a play-by-play, but it was Logan. They’d ask a bunch of questions I can’t answer. The most logical answer is he was drunk, and I refuse to be the girl who only gets kissed when he’s drunk. Hard pass. All I know is the almost-kiss keeps looping like a never-ending Ferris wheel. Maybe we can do the adult thing and leave high school where it belongs—behind us along with my hot pink, Juicy Couture tracksuit and his hockey hair.
Since we’re in the thick of the Holly Jolly Festival, I trudge into the office on a Sunday to work. Apparently, Mrs. Kingsley had the same idea. Maybe this will help me score some brownie points. I power up the computer, open the vendor spreadsheet… and, um, a second tab. For research. Market research. I type “Logan Crawford” into the search, and his profile appears at the top. I never stalked his social media after he left town. My mission was to forget him, not keep tabs on him. Now he’s here, ignoring him is going to be slightly more difficult.
Starting at the bottom, I scroll through row after row of photos. Logan’s always been an attractive guy, and somehow age made him even more attractive. In high school, he was always the cute jock with the hockey hair that would flare out from underneath his beanie. All the girls would follow him around like lost puppies. They couldn’t see his cockiness and arrogance like I could. He had to win at everything. Case in point, I stare at a picture of him holding the championship cup he won when he played for Chicago. I scroll past various pictures of him on the ice, playing in various games. There’s a couple with his daughter when she was a baby, maybe only a couple of months old. I continue scrolling past several pictures with his wife. I never knew her, but based on her wearing his Boston College jersey, they must have met in college. The feed gets quieter over the last three years.
Mid-scroll, I stop on a black-and-white photo of Logan holding his daughter, their backs facing the camera. Josie rests her head on Logan’s shoulder. I glance at the date and see he posted it three days after his wife had passed away. The caption reads, “Forever in our hearts. Never forgotten. Always loved.” The comments are a tide of condolences. Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I can’t imagine losing someone so close to me. My heart cracks a little. Through the gossip mill, I heard about his wife passing, but we were never close, so it felt out of place to reach out.
As I continue scrolling, there are a couple of pictures of Logan on a beach. He’s shirtless. His swim trunks ride low on his hips, and water slicks back his hair, as if he had just finished swimming. Why are the attractive ones always assholes?
“Brie!” Mrs. Kingsley’s voice ricochets down the hall. “I need you in my office.”
My heart leaps to my throat, almost choking me. Before anyone catches me, I quickly minimize the tab. “Yes! Coming.” Shoving away from my desk, I rise and stroll down the hallway. My heels echo off the walls to the thumping of my heart. When I reach Mrs. Kingsley’s door, I pause and run my hands down my blouse, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles, and I peek around the door frame. “You wanted to see me?”
“Come in. Take a seat.” She motions to the chair in front of her desk.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and do what she says.
“How are the event contracts coming?”
That’s what I was supposed to be doing instead of stalking Logan on the internet. One seemed more fun than the other. “Good. They’re going great.” I sit up, straightening my shoulders. Fake it till you make it, right?
“You’ve made all the necessary phone calls?” She raises a perfectly sculpted brow.
“Yes, that’s next on my list.”
“You’ll need to confirm all the vendors comply with town laws, and they have the appropriate permits.”
“Yes, it’s all under control.” I lie through my smile. Shit. Well, guess who’s working all night?
“I want the paperwork on my desk by the end of the week.”
Double fuck. “No problem. I’m already halfway done.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Also, next week I’ll have an assistant for you, much like you’ve been to me over the years. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Great.” I flash her a fake smile. The second I clear her door my smile slides off like a cheap press-on nail. How in the hell am I going to get all this done by the end of the week? Why couldn’t the assistant start like yesterday? When I reach my desk, I plop down in my chair and faceplant into my palm. Once again, Logan Crawford is nothing but a distraction that threatens to ruin everything without even being here. The small rectangle at the bottom of my screen glares back at me. I slide the mouse over and click the X button, making it disappear. Out of sight, Logan out of my mind.
By noon, my head is pounding, and my stomach is ready to eat itself. I ditch the paperwork for lunch and stroll into the Jolly Biscuit, the aroma of warm maple syrup causes me to salivate. “How was tree decorating?” I ask Willa who’s behind the counter.
“It was going great until Mason decided traditional is boring and instead arranged all the ornaments and lights into the shape of a giant middle finger.” She tries to keep a straight face and fails.
I snort laugh. “At least there was an attempt to be festive.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if the decorated side didn’t face the window.”
“So all his neighbors get to enjoy a Christmas salute?”
“No. Because the window is shorter, from the outside you only see two knuckles and a finger, which in turn looks like?—”
I nod. “Oh! Got it.” Another laugh bursts out of me.
Willa shakes her head, grinning. “Your lunch will be right out. Grab a seat and I’ll bring it to you.”
“Okay, great.” She abandons the counter and heads toward the kitchen. I spin around and run face-first into the one man I’m trying not to think about.
