XCave.NET

Never Been One for Wine and Roses

07. Careful with the Hummel

Summary: Logan and Ororo have a little interlude and work around their busy schedules.

Author's Note: I might eventually change this chapter. Ideas are welcomed. The conflict got lost. Don't you hate writer's block? I'll get back on track with the next chapter. If you were looking for a plot in this one, just skip it.

Ororo’s bedroom was bathed in the faint glow of sunlight peeking through hazy clouds; the sun shifted through the trees, throwing a sprinkle of shadows from the swaying leaves overhead across her skin and face. That was the first sight that greeted Logan as he opened his eyes.

He rubbed them as he got his bearings, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and taking stock of his memories of the night before. He’d gone to a highbrow function in the name of charity to meet Ororo, who’d made an impression on him from the moment she walked into his shop. The impression hadn’t only lingered; it deepened, swelled, and wrapped itself tightly around him. He’d surrendered to it with little argument. That left the question: In the harsh light of day, now that he had a minute to think about it, had it been a mistake?

He tucked his free hand back under the covers and shifted himself, feeling the warm weight of a body, soft and fragrant, squirming against him for a comfortable purchase, which she found pretty easily. He turned toward the sweet scent, burying his nose in her silky hair, noticing that the fragrance clung to her pillows and sheets. He tweaked the covers into place, tugging them over her shoulder so she wouldn’t get a draft. A sound halfway between a moan and a whimper hummed through her lips as her hand sought him out, grazing his nipple as she stroked his chest. Her cheek rubbed against him like a cat’s, another tiny “mmmmmph” breaking the silence of the room. Locks of tousled hair brushed against his lips, and Logan grinned at the way she smacked hers dryly, then turned her face up toward his without opening her eyes. The expression held none of the mischief or desire that was laid bare when they met at the conference center’s dance floor, but this look of hers endeared him.

Logan studied her features uninterrupted; she was every bit as beautiful in repose with most of her makeup rubbed off now as she was before. Her eyebrows were elegantly arched and tapered, framing large, deep-set eyes with a faint slant. Her lashes fanned high and sculpted cheekbones, and her nose was slightly turned up, almost pert. What really held his attention was her mouth, full, shapely and shaped like a Cupid’s bow. Logan brushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind a gracefully tapered ear. Her fingers plucked at him in response, exploring him blindly, and her hand paused as it found his stubbled jaw.

Ororo woke up a few degrees at a time, feeling oddly peaceful and relaxed, even though various muscles in her body ached from staying out too late, not to mention on her feet. It was strange; she’d forgotten to slip into her pajamas. A little draft slipped across her backside where her foot had kicked the covers loose, and without thinking she flipped the edge of the sheet over the gap. A deep, raspy voice rumbled “Thanks, darlin’, I was gettin’ a chill” into her hair, and Ororo’s eyes cracked up, squinting up at the source.

They widened as they recognized her overnight guest.

“Oh,” she murmured. “H-hi.”

“Mornin’, darlin’.” She felt firm, warm lips press themselves against her forehead tenderly, and the hint of panic that leapt into her chest subsided when she realized that he’d stayed the night, and that wasn’t a look of regret or confusion she detected in his eyes. Just…contentment. His muscles were relaxed beneath her, and it occurred to her that their limbs were still a mad tangle. The revelation of their nudity followed soon after.

“Morning?” Her eyes left his long enough to flick over to the clock radio on her nightstand. “Good Lord, look at the time!” The red digital display blinked 9:00AM.

“Ain’t gotta be anywhere just yet,” he reminded her. “I was gonna go visit my pop later this afternoon. Other than that, I’m not in any rush.” The corner of his beautifully chiseled mouth quirked. “Unless ya were plannin’ t’kick me out?”

Not even if you ate crackers in bed. “Nope.” She raised her face just enough to shake her head, then brushed her lips over the tiny cleft in his chin. He sighed at the warmth of her lips, wanting more of it, and his fingers lightly traced her jaw as he plundered her mouth. Ororo mentally shoved aside thoughts of the pillow crease she felt in her cheek and morning breath as she let her tentative grip on him become a fervent embrace. The faint sheen of sweat that had collected between them made their bodies pull away with a slight smacking noise as he hauled her on top of him for better access.

Logan, Ororo realized, was a toucher. No quick escapes to the bathroom, no slinking out the front door leaving a dent in the other pillow, no crappy, empty promises of “I’ll call you.” By the time they’d both fallen asleep last night, they were thoroughly exhausted and just collapsed into each other’s arms as the final strains of music faded away. She hadn’t even had the chance to ask him which side of the bed he preferred or how he was most comfortable; her eyes just drifted shut in drowsy languor as she buried her face in his chest, hugging him like a favorite teddy bear.

Right now, Ororo basked in the afterglow that was slowly feeling like foreplay, reveling in the easy caress of his hands over her flesh, infiltrating her sleepy defenses with kisses that pulled her back to the land of the living. Her body was doing most of the thinking for her, and her pelvis moved against him of its own accord, pressing and rubbing against him. He devoured her lips with a growl of approval as she brought him throbbing and twitching awake, too, and his hands groped her backside, pressing her closer, wanting to possess her softness. Her downy curls brushed against him and gradually grew damp.

“I’m dreaming this,” Ororo moaned between kisses. “I dreamed you. That’s the only way to explain this…oh, Lord, that feels good. Logan! LOGAN!”

“Whaddya need me ta explain, Sunshine?” Logan closed in on the sweet little tender space behind her ear as she teased the head of his erection, running it between the folds of her slick heat but never actually engulfing it. “I’m real. I’m here.” He bit her earlobe to drive that point home.

“You’re hot,” she hissed, adding her own item to the list.

“You’re responsible for that,” he countered. She moved against him, her rhythm bringing both of them to a fever pitch. The covers eventually fell away, exposing her to his inspection. She tempted him. Her lips, her breasts offered up like a succulent feast, her feminine core begging him to thrust upward and relieve her torment of him.

“And…I’m awake, now.” With a sinuous ripple of her hips, she drew him inside, and this time it was his face that contorted, eyes widening from the shock of being buried in her depths.

“Good MORNING!” His voice came out a strangled cry that made Ororo stifle a laugh before she was moaning and crying out again from the feel of him beneath her. She rode him, reveling in the pressure that the position put where she wanted it, and Logan drank in the sight of her chest heaving with each breath, her thighs clamped snugly around him as she worked. He drew his knees up behind her, allowing her to lean back against his thighs, and the sight of her sliding up and down along his length spurred him on. “You. Feel. So. Good. Hot. Wet. Uuuuuurrggghh…” Ororo’s fingertips skimmed the veins that stood out in sharp relief against his throat and stroked his chest. She wanted all of him. She loved seeing him like this, every inch laid out for her enjoyment.

“Oh…OH! LOGAN!” Now that she knew she wasn’t dreaming him, Ororo wondered what she had done right with her life to end up here, but didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Her climax was building up with startling intensity, and Logan had a viselike grip around her waist, his hips rising to meet hers.

“Coming…coming…’Ro, come with…meeeeeeeeeeeee –UUUUUURRRGGGH!!” He was preaching to the choir. She squeezed him, never wanting to let him go, he just felt too right, too…too…perfect.

Too much like someone she could never let go. The initial panic that she’d felt when she woke up, over the possibility that he’d make a hasty getaway, crept back up her spine, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes met his, her fear plain. “Logan…?”

“RO! Nnnnnnggggghh!” He pushed her over the edge with one more thrust, throbbing. Tight as a bow string. Her body spasmed around him, every muscle taut as she gave in to pleasure.

“Lord. Have. MERCY! Aaaaagggghhhhhh! LOGAN! Logan!” She bucked and threw herself over him, clutching handfuls of the pillow beneath his head. She quivered as he touched her, urging her to relax her knotted legs and stretch out against him again. They were both out of breath, this time with Logan grinning idiotically at the ceiling.

“Right,” Ororo panted. “Right. Okay. Plan for the day…breakfast. I should feed you.”

“Ya mean ya can actually think straight enough ta make a plan for the day right now? I sure as hell can’t,” he admitted.

I’ll take that to mean I did it right, then… “This isn’t me thinking straight. This is me feeling seriously starved. Last night’s finger food didn’t cut it.” She wiped her hair out of the corner of her mouth and studied him. “It’s not fair for a man to look as good as you do first thing in the morning.” His chest rumbled with laughter, and she tickled the tiny crinkles at the corners of his chocolaty eyes. “I know I look like hell.”

“Stop that. You’re insulting someone I like.” He stilled her hand and kissed her fingertips. “A lot.” He lifted his head from the pillow to kiss her smile. “About that plan…”

“Hmmm?”

“Let’s get up, even though these sheets feel fantastic, yer still nekkid, and the day’s still young. Let’s wash up. Let’s go eat.” He kissed her again, weakening her resolve to get out of bed.

“My place is probably a mess,” she warned him. She doubted there were dishes left in the sink, but she dimly remembered the flurry of hair care products that she had fanned out across her bathroom vanity and the hastily hung towel draped over her shower curtain rod after she dried her hair, to say nothing of the random articles of costumes decorating her living room.

“No biggie. We won’t be here long. I’m headed to Pop’s, but I feel like spending some time together before I head out there. It’s too nice to stay inside…even though I can think of plenty that we could do indoors.”

“I’ll have to make an appearance sometime. My neighbors will be looking for signs of life from me after I went to that ball last night.”

“Afraid they’ll start talkin’?”

“Nope. Just afraid they’ll worry about me and call the cops if they don’t see hide nor hair of me within the next few hours!” She let him up and stretched, giving him a leisurely, unimpeded view of her. She reached into her bureau and snagged a Victoria’s Secret bubblegum pink cotton nightshirt and pulled it over her head. Logan reached over and collected his discarded boxer shorts and tugged them on. He caught her around the waist and nuzzled her neck before she could leave the bedroom.

“Shower?” he inquired and suggested in the same breath.

“That way,” she nodded. They stumbled together into the bathroom, and Ororo adjusted the water to a comfortably warm temperature, splashing a few drops on her wrist. “Do you wanna go first – OH.” Her voice was muffled as he tugged her nightshirt back off, watching her hair fall back down in a luscious, disheveled tumble around her shoulders. His shorts joined the nightie on the floor before he jerked the shower curtain shut after them, and they made liberal, painstaking use of her shower gel. He massaged the luxurious foam of Ororo’s shampoo through her hair, eliciting moans that echoed off the shower walls. The suds sluiced down both of their bodies and drizzled between their toes before running down the drain.

“Was this…part of the plan for the day?” The shower tile felt cool beneath her palms as she supported herself for balance.

“Yup.” He cupped her breasts, swirling soap around their stiff peaks as he took her again. “Yer not clean enough yet. I missed a spot.”

“I trust your judgment,” she gasped. The water was lukewarm by the time they tumbled out of the shower. Ororo’s legs were nearly boneless as she seated herself on the toilet lid. Logan thoughtfully toweled her hair.

“A totally jacked up thought just crossed my mind,” she frowned, peering up at him.

“Lay it on me,” he offered, chuckling.

“I don’t have anything for you to wear here. Just your costume.”

“Hunh. Okay…nothing jacked up about that. It’s the truth,” he admitted. “We’ll have to work around that.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Stopping by my place for a quick change. Slip into whatever you’re comfy in for Sunday brunch, and we’ll take off.” Ororo breathed a silent sigh of relief that he was okay with taking her to his apartment. Of course, the image of him escorting her to his car still in his costume from last night made her giggle. Reading her mind, Logan reached down and lightly tweaked her nose.

She decided it could have been more traumatic for him if they had run into Irene and Raven in the hallway, but thankfully it was just old Mr. Lensherr, taking his Dachsund, Charlie, for a walk. The dog yipped and gave a low throaty growl as he puttered over to Logan, sniffing his boots while Ororo locked her front door.

“Ach! Charlie, that’s no way to behave around little Ororo’s friend, ja? Come to Eric, that’s a good boy!” Mr. Lensherr snapped his rheumatic fingers, and to Ororo the movement looked painful when performed by his gnarled old joints. He wore his favorite pale blue cardigan sweater over a clean white polo shirt, even though it was still warm outside. His tweed slacks looked like they came straight from the dry cleaners, and his gray wool driving cap sat atop his silver waves of hair. Faded eyes that had once been a vibrant blue sized Logan up as he asked “And who might you be, young man?”

“Good morning. Name’s Logan. Actually, James Howlett, but folks call me Logan.” The old man’s grip was surprisingly firm, and his smile held a glint of mischief.

“Where are you coming from in that get-up, Mr. Logan? That’s some costume you have there! Ororo, didn’t you remind this nice young man that it’s no longer Halloween? Let me tell you, the kinder cleaned me out of peppermints last night, I answered my door until at least eight o’clock! Cute little munchkins came into the building this year,” he boasted, reaching up to scratch his neck. Ororo endured his interrogation and smiled at his stories of the “kinder” in their outfits.

“Mrs. Lensherr, my wife, Magda, would have loved seeing little children in these halls if she were here today,” he sighed, peering fondly at Ororo. “This young lady,” he nodded to Ororo as he leveled his gaze at Logan, “is just about the age that Magda was when she and I were married.” Ororo’s cheeks flushed hopelessly as Logan just smiled and made small “hmmm’s” of agreement. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes…one glance at him made hers dart back to her shoes. She wanted so badly to pantomime throat-slashing motions with her finger to shush the well-meaning septuagenarian and tell him to get on with walking his pooch.

“Magda must have been a special woman,” Logan murmured as Mr. Lensherr bragged that they had been together over thirty years before she was taken by small cell lung cancer.

“She was a jewel, my boy, a rare jewel.” He patted Ororo’s arm fondly, winking as he assured him, “and so’s this one here. Don’t let her get away!” Ororo was ready to sink into the floor. Ororo broke up the awkwardness with a hasty tug of Logan’s arm.

“We won’t keep you, Mr. Lensherr. It was good to see you.” She blew kisses at Charlie. “Bye, puppy.” Logan paused to scratch the dog behind his ears, and his tail wagged furiously as he danced on his paws. She tugged Logan toward the stairs faster than he could remember moving on an idle Sunday morning such as this…he nearly dropped his folded cape, belt, cowl and gloves that were bundled under his arm.

“Speedy exit,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, just clearing my throat.” He unlocked the car and let her in on her side, chucking his things into the backseat. “Ya seem a little flushed, darlin’, want me to open the windows?”

“If you like,” she answered noncommittally, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He slid the key into the ignition.

“He’s right, ya know.”

“Hmm? What?”

“Mr. Lensherr. What he said a minute ago. About you being a rare jewel.” Ororo spun to stare at him in surprise. “I liked him. He reminded me of my father.”

“I’d probably like your father,” she replied, rubbing her palms against her faded jeans. “And…thanks, Logan.” Her smile warmed him and brought out a dimple in her cheek. He hadn’t said anything about the “don’t let her get away part,” but it was too soon. That didn’t take away the warm tingles that swept up her neck.

“Any time.” He pulled out of the lot and reached over to stroke her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

A few minutes later, Ororo and Logan were pulling up to a brick duplex with a well-maintained yard.

“Do you own this?” Ororo stared at the two-story home with black shutters and beveled panes in the front door.

“Half of it. The Hudsons live on the other side,” he explained, nodding to the pink child’s bicycle with plastic streamers hanging out of the ends of the handlebars. Barbie winked out from the front of the white plastic basket. “That’s their daughter’s bike. She’s a cute little tyke, and a real pistol just like her mom.” Out of nowhere, Ororo suddenly felt shy. Logan’s home. It almost felt unreal, but a small thrill ran through her stomach that she was actually there. They held hands as he led her up the front walk and short row of concrete steps. He unlocked both sets of locks and a deadbolt and announced “This is it. Whaddya think?” He stepped aside and pushed the door open, letting her step into the foyer.

Hardwood floors thumped beneath her feet, and the distinctive scent of pine tickled her nostrils, as well as remnants of other “male” smells: the rubber wheels of his bike, hung from pegs on the wall in the corner, the leather of his Ropers boots that he’d worn the day he’d taken her to lunch, standing neatly by the front door, and an evocative hint of his aftershave, mingled with a hint of cigar ashes. She spied an amber glass ash tray on a side table that was empty except for the merest vestige of gray residue. A brass floor lamp with an octagonal wraparound glass tray held a framed photograph of a couple that had to be his parents, perhaps when they were in their late thirties. Another wall shelf held a photo that had begun to turn sepia and was crinkled around the edges, with a tiny water spot; this was of two little boys, the older one sticking out his tongue and waggling his fingers in his ears, the smaller of the two flapping his hands under his armpits like a rooster. The cleft in the smaller one’s chin told her who he was. Ororo was drawn to it, running her finger over it.

“This is you,” she informed him.

“Uh-huh. Ugly little cuss, wasn’t I?”

“Hush your mouth!” Her expression was tender as she examined it, then tore herself away to see the rest of his home. Logan noticed that she didn’t pry or open things; she just occasionally peered more closely at different items, asking for the story behind them if there was one to be told. He poured her a glass of instant iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge and told her to make herself at home. He tossed her the remote, one of those all-purpose numbers that turned on a half dozen different appliances, before he headed upstairs to his room to change. Burning curiosity made her want to see his room, but she reminded herself that if her stomach was growling like a bear’s, then he was probably dying of hunger. She perused his wall unit, peering at the rack of meticulously arranged compact discs. There was some old country and blues by artists such as Bonnie Raitt, Johnny Cash and Eric Clapton, and a concert recording by Miles Davis that she never expected to find in his collection. When Logan made his way back downstairs, B.B. King and Lucille were singing the blues, telling him that “The Thrill is Gone,” and for once, he actually disagreed with him. He kissed Ororo soundly, sharing the flavor of his minty toothpaste before he pulled her close, drawing her into an impromptu slow drag across his living room. Her laughter mingled with the music as her hands feathered through the hair at his nape, careful not to muss it again.

“We’ve gotta eat sometime,” she mumbled into his ear.

“In a minute, this is the good part.” Waking up to her gorgeous blue eyes had been the best part. He pondered her words. I’m not dreaming. Was he? He dipped her over his arm with a flourish, grinning at her whoop and the way her chest jiggled a little when she did that. “Now we can go.” He clicked off the music, then ejected the carriage of the disc changer, taking that disc and its case with him out the door.

Ororo directed Logan to her favorite diner, and they shared bites from each other’s meals with occasional bouts of “bad aim” that made them have to lick up the mistakes. It was official, Ororo mused, he’s ruined me. Nothing will ever top last night, followed by this day.

They took a walk in the park as the sun grew higher in the sky, and they sat in the shade of a huge dogwood tree, watching the blossoms litter the grass. A game of “I Spy” slowly gave way to Ororo asking Logan if he’d ever seen the movie “The Wonder Boys,” and they took turns “writing the life story” of passerby at random.

“That woman on that bench over there used to dance on tables in seedy bars and had a career as a pinup model before she met the love of her life in a Laundromat,” Ororo declared, starting them off. “She was washing her whites and crossed the room to buy a box of powdered Clorox from the dispenser –“

“…but she ran out of quarters, and reached into the pocket of a pair of jeans that were so tight they looked painted on,” Logan’s voice intoned as he plucked a dogwood leaf from her hair, then tickled her with it. She swatted at his hand before clasping it. “A man in a red shirt who’d just stepped inside from having a smoke put away his lighter and caught sight of her just as she was looking into her back pockets. That’s when he noticed that she had the sweetest tail he’d ever laid eyes on.”

“He reached into his pockets for some spare change and held it out to her, asking ‘You looked like you needed some change.’”

“She looked deep into his eyes, and said ‘Actually I needed some bleach.’”

“God, we suck at this.” Logan’s bark of laughter startled a woman walking her baby in a stroller.

The drive back to Ororo’s apartment was relatively quiet, but companionable. Logan drove one-handed while his other hand was laced together with Ororo’s and resting on his lap.

“Busy day tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question. Logan nodded.

“Yup. Working on another custom car for a show in Jersey and fixing a transmission.”

“I’ll be home late.” She didn’t doubt it. Too much work that she’d nudged aside for the fundraiser was beckoning to her when she got back. Logan sensed a funny little note of hesitation in her voice.

“Do ya keep yer cell phone turned on during the day?” She cocked her head and nodded. “Good. Does it play one of those annoying little ringtones?”

“No way. I hate those things.” Kenyatta’s always treated her to a tinny rendition of any current song by 50 Cent.

“Good. Then I can call ya if I need to hear the sound of yer voice.”

“You can do that.” Warm hands cupped her face and drew her close. Sure he could call her. But the proof was in the pudding when he showed up on her doorstep again. Her lips still pulsed with the memory of his kiss as she made her way up the stairs, waving to him as he pulled out of the lot.

Raven and Irene finally showed themselves and subjected her to the inevitable interrogation, and she gave them the abridged version, regaling them with details of the ball and mentioning that “Logan and I had a nice time.” She left it at that.

“Hot dog!” Irene crowed. Raven poured them some more tea.


Logan’s drive to his father’s house was pensive and filled with thoughts of Ororo; how could he not think about her? Pretty much from the jump, from the moment that he’d kicked her door shut and searched for her lips in the dark, she’d had a hold on him. Never mind that she’d blown him away in that costume. He’d been hooked from the moment that the sunlight hit her hair the afternoon that she’d dropped off her Impala. He’d felt instant attraction before, he was no stranger to it; but never so visceral, never like being punched in the gut and having the wind knocked out of him, never this feeling of his feet moving of their own accord toward someone, hands itching to touch her.

He’d wondered if he’d gone to far when he kissed her in the car. It was a lunch date: friendly, casual, no expectations. Then she’d given him that look: Please don’t tell me it’s over this soon. When will I see you again? Stay. Her posture spoke a different story, though. Something tense in her shoulders and a whitening of her knuckles told him that she was struggling. He didn’t think he misread the attraction between them, but she seemed worried about giving into it. Maybe as much as he was. Logan maneuvered his car through the evening traffic, cursing whatever man, or men in her past that left that tension in her demeanor behind.

So, Logan went out on a limb. He’d scoured the costume shops, feeling like an idiot whenever store clerks asked him if he needed any help. It didn’t help when the shops were filled with the screeching of “haunted” door buzzers and maniacal laughter emanation from foam rubber zombies and googly-eyed spiders. Rows of plastic scythes, swords, and executioner’s axes lined the walls, and fake cloth “flames” fluttered inside of backlit jack-o’-lanterns as he perused the costumes hanging on the racks, then walked farther back to examine the ones against the wall. The question that kept popping up in his mind amidst the constant tattoo of I feel like such a tool was I wonder if she’d like this one?

The Batman suit took him back. He poked at the plastic sleeve as he removed the hanger from the rack, peering at the contents and the cardboard insert showing the model and size. He shrugged off an offer of help from a gum-popping girl wearing a blue glitter Tina Turner fright wig as he unsnapped the costume sleeve and pulled out the jersey. No insert, thank goodness, but the accessories were flimsy. He reassembled the costume and continued to comb the store and found a surprising treasure of accessories sold separately that he could use to make the cheesy suit a bit more authentic. By the time he walked out of the store, he had a costume that he would have loved when he was twelve.

The winding circular driveway outside of his father’s house was still vibrant with color from his mother’s rosebushes giving up their final blooms of the season. He chuckled at “Norbert,” the lawn gnome that he and his brother had nicknamed as kids, often times dressing it in purloined articles of his parents underwear or hats during the winter when they built him a “friend in the form of lopsided snowmen. Norbert still stood proudly on the left side of the lawn, albeit in less grand shape than he remembered. The enamel paint was chipped and weather beaten around the red cap on his head, and his snowy beard had seen better days.

Logan locked his car and steeled himself for the inevitable, knocking on the heavy oak door. The old navy blue Buick that he’d parked behind told him that his father had company. He saw the blurred outline of its female owner trotting gracefully to answer the door through its frosted glass panes. It was jerked open before he could answer it again.

“Logan!” Her hand flew to her chest with her characteristic flutter, and Logan mutely asked himself, as he had before, if she practiced that gesture in the mirror. The house smelled faintly of furniture polish, lemon oil and 409 spray as he stepped inside and wiped his boots on the front mat. Logan nodded at the handsome fifty-something woman and pasted a smile on his face.

“How’ve you been, Amelia?”

“As well as I can be, with all the grass clumps your father tracked in with his golf shoes this morning! He left at the crack of dawn to see if he could break ninety again with Earl before he took us to brunch.” Like a child tattling to her teacher, she peered around the corner before leaning and muttering, “And he hid his empty beef jerky pouch between the car seats so I wouldn’t find it! I don’t know what he sees in that horrible stuff! The next time he goes for his upper G.I., they’ll find the whole cow!” Logan uttered a short huff of laughter and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Logan’s father’s girlfriend had taste in furnishings that was thankfully similar to his mother’s, and Logan was grateful for small favors. The couches and tables that he’d grown up with had been refinished with new cushions and stain instead of replaced, even though there was new carpeting and tile throughout the house. When Logan gazed through the patio doors in the kitchen, he spied two new maple trees in the back of the yard. More kitschy, folksy figurines crowded the shelves in the den, their painted eyes staring hollowly at him as he inspected the changes. Most of the pictures of his mother had been put away, with the exception of his parents’ wedding photo above the mantel and a photo of all of them together, taken when Logan was seventeen. The glass pane of the frame was gleaming from a recent rubdown with Windex; faint wipe marks remained along the corners.

His father was his only anchor to this house that no longer felt like home. Visits with his older brother were scant and infrequent due in part to the distance; John had always been a little closer to their mother, and took after Elizabeth a great deal. He always promised Logan and his father “We’ve gotta get together more often than this, sheesh!” over the heads of his two children hugging their Grandpop around his bony knees one last time. The last time Logan had seen his niece and nephew, they were up to his waist, and his frustration at their lack of a cohesive family grew.

“No one believes me when I tell them I have another son,” his father’s voice boomed as he strode into the den, hugging his son tightly enough to force an “oof!” from his chest. Logan drew back, examining his father and approving of what he saw. His color was healthy and his eyes were bright, and his thick, dark hair was still sprinkled with gray and receding at the hairline, but it had been trimmed recently. Jonathan Howlett was an older version of his son, and Amelia had fallen willingly victim to his chocolate brown eyes and cleft chin the day he’d approached her in the supermarket to ask if she thought the cantaloupes were fresh, and how could was he supposed to tell? The rest was history, and made a tale that sounded convoluted to Logan’s ears at the dinner table the first time they’d invited him to dinner together. Still, the sappy grin on his dad’s face and the neat-as-a-pin house were proof enough that his father’s life was rolling along nicely.

“How long are you staying, Jamie?”

“I’ve a nice pot roast,” Amelia sang from the kitchen, as she pulled it from the oven using a huge pair of oven mitts with red hens embroidered across the cuffs.

Logan shrugged noncommittally. “Dinner. I’m stayin’ fer dinner.” He ran his hand over his nape as he studied his dad. “Ya got anything ya need me t’do?” It was his standard opening, one that his dad was happy to pounce on.

“I’ve got some plant food spikes that need to be put in around those new trees out back, the lightbulb in the garage needs to be changed, and Amelia says the ceiling fan in the guest room makes a funny noise when you turn it on high.”

“Logan, could you get me the good china out of the hutch? And the blue placemats?” There was that tightening in his gut again. His mother’s good china. One more thing that she hadn’t bothered to take with her, even though it was one of her most prized possessions. His father’s words came back to him in a rush, and he felt the weight of his father’s head in his lap while he raged inside: She didn’t want anything. Didn’t want any part of me anymore. None of it made her happy. Logan opened the deepest drawer of the hutch and withdrew three of the antique, gold-rimmed plates with tiny blue cornflowers in the centers and stamped with the Lenox brand seal on the back. The dining room table was already covered with the delicate white crocheted cloth, and a gravy boat that was never used took the place of honor in the center. Logan arranged the plates and mats on the table before searching for the plant spikes in the garage.

Logan finished tightening the screws on the base of the ceiling fan with his father’s over-stripped Phillips screwdriver when Amelia called him to dinner.

“What kind of cars have been coming into the shop lately, Jamie?”

“Worked on a sweet little Mini-Cooper last week,” Logan mumbled around a chunk of roasted potato.

“Those are great little cars,” his dad agreed, swallowing half of his iced tea in one gulp. “How’s Nate?”

“Still a kick in the pants.”

“Where were you yesterday, Jamie?” Amelia brought some hot rolls to the table and automatically placed one on Logan’s plate. “We called you twice yesterday, and the phone just rang and rang and rang…were you out the whole day? We tried this morning, too,” she accused. Jonathan’s eyebrows lifted, and a hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth.

“I was out last night. A little later than usual. Slept in,” he added. Nope. Didn’t work. That funny light went on in his future stepmom’s eyes that usually preceded a game of Twenty questions?

“Did you meet someone?” Yes. “Is she nice?” Yes, very nice. “What does she do?” Works for a charity network, doing PR, and a lot of grunt work that gets dumped on her plate… “Does her family live around here?” No. “Where are they from?” She mentioned Delaware. “Where did you two go?” A fancy shindig that lasted waaaayyy too long, but he refused to launch into why.

“What’s she like, Jamie?” The question was simple enough, coming from his father’s lips, but he hadn’t the first clue of where to begin.

“Different.” He plucked idly at his dinner roll and ran a hunk of it through the thin gravy swimming around the roast beef. Hot. Earthy. Funny. Sexy. “Nice.” He supplied that for Amelia’s benefit, but his father looked at him as though he knew better.

“Bet she’s a real looker.”

“Ya do, eh?” Logan looked up at him sharply.

“Betcha really like her, too. Yer bein’ way too quiet, there, Jamie. Johnny had that same goofy look on his face back when he and Sharon started dating.” Jonathan winked and went back to his pot roast. Throughout the meal, Logan stole looks at his father and Amelia and the way they still held hands at the table. It gave him an odd pang.

Logan helped clear the table and went back to perusing the myriad assortment of knick-knacks in the den. He reached for a tiny resin figurine that he didn’t recognize, but that brought a smile to his face.

“Watch the Hummel. Most of those aren’t replaceable,” Amelia warned. “What’re you looking at so hard over here?”

“This one. It’s not like the ones that Mom used to like. Where did you get it?”

“EBay. I love Boyd’s Folkstone figurines, and they had a huge run of first edition pieces that I couldn’t resist. I loved the detail on this one, and it’s one of a kind. They only made one edition like it.” Logan turned it this way and that, smiling at the two little girls with books tucked under their arms, wearing old-fashioned ruffled dresses and pigtails.

Their coloring and features were African-American.

“Good choice,” he rumbled, placing it carefully back on the shelf. Boyd’s Folkstone, Boyd’s Folkstone…he made a note to himself to remember the brand. He tossed back a reply that didn’t promise much on his way out the door when his father suggested that he bring Ororo over to the house one night for dinner. He was wondering how to get her there himself.



Ororo hated phone tag. She even hated people calling it “playing phone tag.” It sucked. Just rename it “restless, ugly torture from banging your head on the wall, waiting for the phone to ring.” That was her definition. Two weeks had gone by, and the most she had heard from Logan were his messages on her mobile, in that yummy baritone that reminded her all too painfully how good his lips felt on her neck. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

It was always the same. She called. She waited to hear him pick up. His answering machine came on, reassuring her “No one’s home right now, wait for the beep, and pretend yer talkin’ t’me instead of this machine. Thanks!” BEEEEEEPPP.

“Hey, Logan. It’s ‘Ro.” She’d slap herself briefly when she remembered that only her family really called her that, he hadn’t really offered her a pet name. Not yet, anyway…she was still optimistic. “Ororo. I had a free minute, and I was wondering…if you wanted to spend any time together. Maybe I could take you out to lunch this time.” She fiddled with the pens in her pen cup, lining them up next to each other like linkin’ logs. “Hope I hear from you.” This was ten times worse than being in high school. Maybe her voice didn’t sound as desperate as she thought it did, but at least when she was a kid, she was leaving messages for boys NOT knowing what it was like to have had sex so good it made her toes curl. She wasn’t cockwhipped back then. That always made a difference. So she turned back to her pile of work and moved things from her inbox to her outbox, commiserating with Anna how much she hated playing the waiting game.

Logan didn’t realize he was playing it too, in so many words. He was elbow-deep in the hood of a silver Ford Ranger, changing a filter. He’d spent more time under the hood than at his desk, and every time he tried Ororo’s cell, he got the brief, electronic voice telling him to leave a page for this customer, press one now. He was about to wear out the “one” on the button pad of his office phone pretty soon. She was busy, he was getting frustrated, and his duplex felt too lonely when he came home at night.

All right. It was time to haul out the big guns. Logan wiped his hands on a rag, succeeding in redistributing the grease on his hands more than cleaning any off. “Nate,” he barked across the shop, “what was the name of that little florist’s where you got that big bouquet for Beatrice?” Nate covered the receiver of the phone as he bellowed back the name, then quickly ended his call while Logan hunted down the yellow pages and whipped through them, jotting the number down on a Post-it.

Ororo looked up from her spreadsheet as someone gave a fumbling knock on her office door. “Yes?”

“Oof!” Anna’s voice was muffled behind something, and Ororo rushed to open the door, gasping with a mixture of shock and delight. Anna’s voice was hidden behind a flower arrangement so large it was ostentatious, and her female coworkers peered around the corners of their cubicles at Ororo’s cry.

“It’s HUGE! It’s GORGEOUS! Good Lord, what’s this?”

“Another good reason to give him some,” Anna retorted, not missing a beat. She allowed Ororo to take the flowers and set them on her work table, and her fingers combed through the fern fronds and baby’s breath for the plastic rod holding the card. With shaking fingers she opened the tiny cream-colored envelope.

Figured you’d like this more than me filing a missing person’s report. Miss you. Logan.

Ororo was grinning foolishly, eyes bright as she fanned herself with the card.

“That good, huh?” Anna inquired, leaning down to sniff one of the tall white lilies and straighten a blue Dutch iris.

“Uh-huh.” Ororo was speechless.

“Guess this means he likes you.”

“I definitely like him” Ororo gushed. “This is unreal.”

“Are ya gonna call him again?”

“Are you kidding? First I’ve gotta call my momma!” Then she’d call him…


“Howlett Auto Parts and Repair? This is Logan,” he announced, juggling the phone on his ear while he tore open a box of filters.

“Can the Caped Crusader come out and play?” Logan’s ear-to-ear grin at her sultry voice.

“Play? Batman doesn’t play,” he corrected her gruffly. “But he does make house calls. How’ve you been, ‘Ro?”

“Lonely.” She twirled the phone cord as she continued to stare at the flowers. “But someone sent me these beautiful flowers to keep me company in my little dungeon.” Her cheeks grew warm at his use of her nickname, telling her that he’d gotten her messages.

“Flowers? Hmmmmm...not to rain on your parade, but I might hafta kick the ass of the guy sendin’ ya flowers…”

“Don’t you dare. I had plans for his ass.” Nate stared at Logan as he guffawed and slapped his knee, then just sat there with a cheesy grin. “After I feed him, of course.”

“I’ll be there at seven.”