Blow - Kim Karr Page 0,12
“I saw the way you were looking at him and I just thought you should know he never gets attached.”
If only she knew that made him all the more perfect.
“I appreciate your warning, but like I said, it’s not what you think.”
A hand touched my back and I felt a spark as Logan leaned forward. “What’s not what you think?”
Feeling oddly shy, I barely glanced at him. “You and me. I was just telling Molly that she had the wrong idea about us.”
He sat down and I felt those hazel eyes zero in on me.
Shedding the shyness that a woman my age had no business feeling, I met his gaze. I must have been crazy, seeing in expression that he hoped she didn’t have the wrong idea about us. I blinked, knowing my interpretation couldn’t have been right.
Logan tapped the bar with his fingers. “Don’t listen to anything Molly has to say. She grew up next door to my grandfather and thinks she knows me.”
Molly hit him with the towel she had slung over her shoulder. “I do. We’ve known each other practically our whole lives.”
He threw her a warning look I didn’t understand and then shrugged. “True, but after I was fifteen, I only visited once a year at Christmas and one month every summer. So you tell me, how well can you know me?”
She frowned; obviously she didn’t agree with him. “Better than most people.”
He tossed her another warning look.
“Molly,” an older man bellowed from a doorway behind the bar.
She rolled her eyes. “Coming, Dad.”
The man lifted his chin. “Logan.”
“Frank,” Logan replied flatly.
“I’ll see you around. I have to get back to my club. My father prefers to be over here,” Molly said with a glimmer in her eye.
“Yeah, sure.” Logan’s tone didn’t give anything away.
“Molly,” the man said sternly. “The DJ is having some technical difficulty.”
With another roll of her eyes, she replied, “Coming, coming,” then she turned back. “You’d think my father would know what to do when the breaker blows.” With that, she hurried toward the older man and followed him through the door, which must have connected to the club-like side.
Logan swiveled on the stool and his knees touched mine. More sparks shot through me. I wondered if he felt them too. If he did, they must not have bothered him because he didn’t move away. “So I’ve got some bad news.”
I tilted my head. “Oh, no, what is it?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger, but there’s no spare tire and the vehicle is going to have to be towed to the station.”
“Can’t he just patch it?”
He shook his head. “No way. I saw it and it’s beyond repair.”
I looked at my watch and sighed. Michael probably already had Clementine home by now. Distressed, I said, “Are you sure there’s nothing they can do? I need to get to work tonight and it’s a little far to walk.”
Logan became very serious. “The tire isn’t repairable. He has to order a new one. Unfortunately the station doesn’t stock the one that fits your SUV. He says it will be ready tomorrow afternoon. It’s doubtful any garage around here stocks an expensive tire like that, but do you want to call your husband and see if he knows of someplace else you might want to try? Because there is no way you should walk anywhere this late.”
“My husband?” I laughed out loud.
Logan furrowed his brows. “Yeah, O’Shea.”
I laughed again. “Michael isn’t my husband.”
His eyes flickered in surprise. “Sorry, I just assumed.”
I swore I saw a shadow of doubt so I held my left hand out. “See, I’m not married. No ring.”
Strangely, relief seemed to cross his features.
I’d already checked out Logan’s hand back at Michael’s office and I hadn’t seen a ring, or a tan mark, or an indentation, so my assumption was the young McPherson wasn’t married either. But the lipstick-stained cup meant he might have a girlfriend.
“Is the little girl your daughter?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. Clementine is my niece. Michael is married to my sister.”
Is, was. I wasn’t really sure which, since she was MIA.
Logan didn’t look confused, but I still thought I should probably explain. “My sister has been in rehab for the past three months, and—”
Before I could finish the well-rehearsed lie Michael had told me to tell everyone, the door opened, and with the music on pause the mechanic’s voice bellowed through the bar, “O’Shea! Elizabeth O’Shea.”
“That’s me,” I said, this time to the man in the blue quilted jacket