Inevitable (4 page)

Okay, it wasn’t that sexy.

Trying to ignore the feelings creeping through my body proved difficult. Every muscle worked overtime trying to keep my pace while making sure my figure appeared attractive as possible.

Give it up. He’s married
. A giant puff of air was pushed from my lungs when I laughed, relaxing. I was acting crazy. Attractive or not I’d never been one to get all insecure over a guy and I sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

“Do you always run this early…?”

“Cassandra,” I said, answering the unasked question.

His lips pulled up in a ghost of a smile. “I’m Logan.”

Finally, a name. Shifting my gaze to his hands moving in rhythm with his legs, I spotted an empty ring finger.

“So?” he said, waiting.

“Hmm?” I was at a loss. What the hell was he asking now? Why couldn’t we run in peace? It was bad enough having him look damn near lickable, so close beside me.

“Do you run every day this early? You’re in great shape.” His gaze wandered down my body, lingering on my legs and then back up, grinning. “Very nice shape,” he repeated in a gruff murmur.

I swallowed, blinking wildly, and looked down at me feet. Keep them moving, one in front of the other, I reminded myself.

He’s nobody special.

“Yeah. Every morning.” I needed to get a grip, but the look in his eyes every time I glanced in his direction was absolutely mesmerizing.

I would have sworn if I didn’t know any better, he was planning on snatching me up and devouring me in one giant bite. That look was…powerful, and it left me breathless.

I wiped away the many inappropriate and vulgar thoughts that had filled my mind and tilted my head in his direction.

“What about you? You seem in pretty good shape.” Finally, I could speak in complete sentences and without a stutter.

He smirked. “Every morning. Although in the city, it was on a treadmill. This morning has been a very nice change.”

I rolled my eyes. How long was he planning to keep this up?

“Right well—” My foot caught in one of the many potholes in the beat up road and my body shot forward, arms flailing wildly.

I knew what was coming, so I closed my eyes, scrunched my face, and waited for the impact.

Strong arms caught me around the waist, but it was too late to stop my one leg from giving out and skidding across the pavement, shredding the skin on my knee.

Logan’s grip never faltered and he slowly helped me up to a sitting position.

“I’m fine.” I hissed, heat scorching my cheek. I was certain he was going to ask. I looked up, planning to deliver my best ‘seriously, I’m fine’ but the look of distress staring back at me left me frozen.

Pretending I wasn’t hurt when his eyes were filled with genuine concern was impossible.

Hesitantly I pulled my gaze away to focus on my knee. It was covered with dirt and oozing blood. I had a feeling I’d be picking pebbles out of it when I got home.

“That looks bad.” He bent down to examine my wound; the muscles in his naked back flexed and glistened with a layer of sweat. He had to do more than simply jog in the morning to have a body like that.

His clean, masculine scent filled my senses. He smelled exactly how I always imagined a real man was supposed to smell. Mark always sprayed on multiple layers of expensive cologne masking his natural scent.

Completely mesmerized by his bronzed taut skin, I didn’t see him pull out his sleek black bottle.

I winced, biting back the groan of pain when he began spraying the icy cold water over my wound. The liquid ran down my knee dulling the searing pain.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, looking anywhere but in those captivating hazy-blue eyes.

“You think you can walk back?” He asked, standing up. “You still have half a mile to go.”

“I’ll be fine.” The thought of limping the whole way was disheartening, but what other choice did I have.

That smug grin I’d seen earlier replaced his concerned expression and I couldn’t help returning a smile when he reached out and pulled me to my feet.

I groaned as the pain ripped through my knee when the muscles pulled. My hands rubbed soothing circles around the area above the wound but it did little to help.

“Hop on.”

I looked up and saw Logan bent down facing away. He tilted his head back and smirked.

“Come on, I’ll give you a lift.” His brows rose and he motioned his head for me to get on his back.

“You can’t be serious!” I laughed nervously, waiting for him to stand back up laughing as well and telling me he of course he was kidding.

“Get on, Cassandra.” His tone was something new. Not playful or even serious. Demanding, yet gentle.

“Um…that’s not really necessary.” I choked out, stunned. The thought of wrapping my sweaty body around him was unthinkable.

“You’ll either get on my back or I’ll throw you over my shoulder.” He stood and turned to face me, his expression gave nothing away. He was impossible to read.

I stiffened. He wasn’t joking. “I don’t—” My voice cracked, nervous laughter caught in my throat.

“All right then, over the shoulder it is.”

Before I could say another word or attempt to run—not that I’d get very far—he had his arms around my waist and my body thrown over his shoulder like a firefighter. He sure could pass for one but I wasn’t in need of rescuing.

Panic set in, my eyes wide in shock. “Put me down! I can walk!” I yelled pounding my fists on his back but he began walking blocking me out.

My mouth rested inches from his skin and his scent assaulted my nostrils at full force.
Focus, Cassandra, Focus!

Logan continued in a smooth and slow pace. He seemed to be enjoying himself too much to rush.

“You always this stubborn?” he asked, finally breaking the long silence.

“Pretty much,” I mumbled through gritted teeth. My body had fallen limp in his arms, slung over his shoulder like a piece of meat. If only he had a cave to drag me into and ravish me until I forgot all about this humiliating stunt.

Where the hell did that come from? There was something about this guy that was so enticing and I knew that was a bad sign.

He chuckled once. “Thought so.”

When we reached my house, I sighed. Finally.

He carried me up my driveway to my front porch.

I waited for him to sit me down but he didn’t move. He just stood there, thinking or something. My body stiffened. I didn’t like the idea of him thinking right now. I only wanted to run inside and slam the door in his face, nothing else, no matter how much my body might disagree.

Looking back to see what he was doing, I gasped. He was blatantly staring at my ass that happened to be inches from his face. His searing breath hit the bare skin of my rear that peaked out from under my tiny shorts that were
once
again riding up.

“Put me down, you pig!” I yelled and smacked him on the back of his head.

He laughed, a deep guttural laugh, his entire body pulsating, bouncing me up and down with the rhythm.

Once back on my feet, I straightened my shoulders, narrowing my eyes and pursing my lips.

“You should clean up that knee,” he said ignoring my look of disdain. All amusement was gone from his voice but his eyes still danced with delight. “Hate to see those sweet long legs get an infection.”

I rolled my eyes for the twentieth time this morning.
What the hell was happening to me?
I looked away and muttered, “Whatever. Thanks for the lift, I guess.”

He turned around and headed down the driveway without another word.

Inhaling a deep, much needed breath that was not accompanied by Logan’s delicious unfamiliar scent, I let it out just as I heard him call out.

 “Thanks for the view this morning, sweetheart. It was magnificent.”

I looked over to see him standing at the end of the drive, smirking. I was getting used to that look.

Yeah, he was definitely behind me too long on my jog.

Never again.

From now on, I’d run in the evening.

Chapter Three

Oliver

A
fter showering and bandaging my knee I spent the remainder of the day inside, blasting my favorite tunes to help block out the commotion going on next door.

Without any air conditioning, I was forced to open the windows in order to survive the intense heat wave that decided to hit right after lunch. I managed to remain busy to keep from replaying the morning events.

I dusted, vacuumed, and started a load of wash before climbing the tiny ladder in the hall ceiling to pull down more of my grandparents’ treasures tucked away in the attic.

When I first moved in, Hilary helped me empty most of the old furnishings to make way for newer items more to my taste. It hurt to watch the house slowly empty but I kept some of their art and knickknacks, and had yet to replace the curtains in a few of the rooms. It was beginning to feel more like home with the love of my grandparents built into the walls, wrapping me in a warm embrace.

After my grandfather died four years earlier, my grandmother slowly faded away. His death was unbearable for her to deal with. It didn’t help matters that her only child—my father—disappeared years ago and didn’t bother to show up for the funeral.

Every year my father sent me a birthday card with a hundred dollar bill and no return address. That was until my eighteenth birthday when the card not only had an address on the outside but it also had a phone number written under his usual closing, ‘love you always, Daddy.’

I never called, but like the many others cards before it, I stacked it in a small box and tucked it under my bed with the cash still inside…untouched.

It was only a couple months later that my grandfather died. I asked my mother if anyone had heard from Martin, my father, but the look in her eyes told me no. He set himself up to be unreachable to everyone but me.

I felt the burden on my shoulders when my grandmother collapsed in her living room the night after she lost her husband. She needed her son, so I pulled out the child sized shoebox and dialed the number.

A man answered on the second ring and all I felt was sadness, no anger. I asked if Martin Clarke was there and he said ‘speaking.’

Moment of truth. I could pour out all my frustration and buried resentment at his ability to up and leave, but by this point, it didn’t matter. My mother did her best to raise me and I loved her for that. I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. He was Martin Clarke, not my daddy.

I only had one thing to say that day.

“Your father died last night in his sleep. The funeral is this Sunday.”

I hung up feeling proud for doing my part. Not for me, but for my grandmother.

I never told anyone I made that phone call or that the number even existed. I debated telling my mother but didn’t want to let anyone down if he didn’t show up. My mother’s parents died before I was born, a car accident, but Martin’s father treated her like a daughter. Even more so with the disgrace of their son leaving her with a young child to raise on her own.

The day of the funeral came and went with nothing but tears and happy memories of my grandfather’s long life. No one spoke about Martin, nor did he show up.

That was the final straw. I packed up all the cards with the crisp bills inside and sent them to the return address from the last birthday card.

My grandmother died five months later in her sleep, on my grandfather’s side of the bed, clutching a picture of her husband and son during happier times.

I didn’t call the phone number that time. I no longer had it and like before, he never showed up to the funeral.

So now, sitting in the hallway with a box filled with my father’s childhood mementos it made it easy to carry it outside and throw it on the burn pile.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, I had a spotless house and a few less items in the attic. It felt good. I sat on my back porch finishing a plate of pasta I made for dinner, smiling at the beautiful array of colors in the sky.

Everything about that backyard was a happy memory.

I sighed, completely relaxed.

My nearly dry wash hung on the line swaying in the breeze. The neighbor’s horde of workers had retired for the evening and my new patio chairs were comfortable enough to fall asleep in.

The view of my property was nothing but a straight line of trees leading into the mammoth forest. My first and best childhood memories were made here looking out at those trees. On the far left side of the lawn sat a tree fort my father and grandfather built for my sixth birthday. They had been grinning with excitement when my mother walked me out there, blindfolded, and they all yelled
surprise
.

I still took the time to climb it every spring and fall to sweep the cracked wood floor, dust away the spiderwebs, and make any necessary repairs.

My grandfather’s tool shed was the one part of the house I never attempted to clean out. It was packed full of everything anyone could possibly need, not that I knew how to use ninety percent of his collection. However, give me a screw gun or hammer and nails and I’m your girl.