North Country(46)

“You mean that some fucking rapist threatened to pay me and my kid a visit?” I snap.

“I made sure that wasn’t gonna happen, didn’t I?” His jaw hardens. “But now you know everything. You got your answers.” Logan eases past me and climbs the stairs, his chest brushing against my arm. “I’m tired. ’Night, Em.”

The last thing I can think about is going to bed. I race up after him, plowing through the door before he can shut it.

Logan spares me an indecipherable look before he shrugs off his button-down shirt, leaving him in a T-shirt, his muscular arms on display.

“The other night, you told me you had no secrets from me.” My voice cracks. I sound like a petulant child.

He chuckles as he crouches in front of the unlit wood stove, opening the glass door.

“It’s not funny!”

“You’re right. It’s not.” He strikes a match and ignites the crumpled newspaper waiting alongside the kindling, already prepped for a fire. There’s a faint draft in here, but it can’t be from the broken window. Annie confirmed the repairman came to fix it.

My attention drifts around the studio apartment as Logan quietly watches the flame catch. I haven’t been in here for years, since Sarah gave me the grand tour after the renovation. I remember being equal parts thankful that the space was transformed and bitter that she and Jon had erased the backdrop for so many of my fondest memories.

It’s much the same—small, cozy, rustic, with few belongings to clutter it. A jacket here, a pair of sneakers there. The bed’s been made, the corners tucked in. A stack of books sits on the nightstand beside it. The kitchen is spotless save for a coffee mug next to the maker. I doubt Logan has used the oven. Annie would insist her long-lost son eat with them every night.

Confident with the fire, Logan eases onto the couch just long enough to unfasten the laces of his work boots, kicking them in a heap, before he crosses the room to the fridge to fish out two bottles of beer. “Want a drink?”

“Uh … sure.”

He smirks as he cracks them open, setting one on the counter for me. “Don’t worry. Glen gave me permission.”

“Your PO?”

“Yeah, seems like a stand-up guy.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.” I’m struggling to read Logan at all. It could be all the wine I’ve had tonight—far more than I’d usually drink while out in public—or, more likely, the rapidly growing tension inside this room.

“I guess we’ll find out.” He taps the neck of my bottle against his in silent cheers, his heavy gaze never leaving mine as he takes a long sip.

“First real drink in twenty years?”

“Yup.” He sets the beer down, his thumb smoothing over the label. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“On drinking?”

“On everything.” He wanders over to the five-disc carousel stereo system I remember from our childhood, and hits power, then play.

A few clicks and a whir sound and then music crackles over the well-worn speakers.

Nostalgia floods my senses. “I can’t believe that clunky thing still works.”

“Crazy, right? Figured it would have died years ago.”

“They don’t make ’em like they used to.” I echo words my father muttered every time an appliance broke down. “Nobody uses those anymore. Everything’s digital now. You can pay for subscriptions to entire music catalogues with, like, 100 million songs that you can play over a wireless Bluetooth speaker.”

“Yeah, I’ll get there. Eventually. I still like the CDs, though. ”

Probably because they were all Jay’s. Logan’s brother would rush out to buy the latest albums as soon as they were released. He’d share them with Logan—and by default, me.

Logan scratches at the thin layer of bristle coating his chin. “Ran into Millie Crawford at the bar tonight. Sorry, Amelia.”

Despite myself, I smile. We seem able to shift in and out of somber conversation with little effort. “Yeah, she’s a staple around there. She unloads her four kids on her parents every Friday night to go barhopping.”

Logan’s eyebrows arch. “Four kids?”

“She didn’t mention that? Did she tell you about her newly single status? From what I’ve heard, she often leads with it.” A couple of the guys from work have shared stories about her pickup lines.

“No. She just said we should grab coffee or dinner or something soon.”

“Huh. You should totally hit that again.” It’s meant to be a joke. Logan always said how much he regretted hooking up with her way back when, and he knew how much I hated knowing she was his first.

“I’m thinking about it. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m a criminal,” he says through another sip.

The humor dies inside me. I just got used to Logan being out and he’s already on the prowl for a woman? The idea of it spikes a gut-twisting pain that I struggle to hide. “You’re not wasting time.”

His eyes flash with a knowing look. If that was a test, I think I failed. “Why are you here, Em?” His voice was already naturally deep. Now it vibrates in my chest as he closes the distance.

I stand my ground, resisting the urge to back away—not because I want to get away from him, but because being this close without touching him is almost unbearable. “I told you, I want answers.”