Ororo nearly kissed her desktop monitor when she crossed the threshold of her office. She set down her Starbucks cup and multitasked, hanging up her coat and shucking her boots while her hard drive booted up.
The morning was crisp, still freezing, but there were patches of blue peeking through the clouds for a change. The piles of plowed snow on the sidewalks were finally beginning to shrink, but the weather forecast promised more snow by the weekend. Ororo was fine with that. She planned to hide on her couch in ugly pajamas, under a pile of blankets, remote in one hand and a pint of Haagen-Dazs in the other.
She despised Valentine’s Day.
The stores had pushed the season again once the last of the clearance-priced Christmas cards disappeared from the shelves. Every store window display was screaming red or cotton candy pink. If Ororo saw one more diamond commercial, she’d puke.
It brought back too many annoying, even embarrassing memories.
In elementary school, the holiday just meant making a mailbox out of a milk carton and getting paste on your fingers. Ororo’s mother was in her element, domestic diva that she was, and sent Ororo to school every year with a stack of perfect Valentines, one SweetTart taped to each envelope and made out with each child’s name in her elegant script. Ororo only had to scrawl her own name on the “From” line in red marker, and it was a done deal. And N’Dare always made cookies, sugar cookies with red M&Ms.
After sixth grade, it all went to hell.
Carnation Day.
It was the universe’s cruel joke on Ororo Munroe, karmic retribution for every white lie she’d told or bug she’d stepped on during her ‘tween-aged life.
Junior high was bad enough. Carnation Day was just wrong. The posters went up around school as soon as everyone came back from Christmas break. The sales in the cafeteria were advertised with fluffy Cupids in diapers, picked out in silver glitter. They mocked Ororo.
Red means romance. Pink means affection. White means friendship. More useless information someone had to beat into everyone’s heads, in every school bulletin and the student newspaper. Get your carnations for your sweetheart, only a dollar each.
Dutifully, she bought one white one for Anna, a no-brainer. Anna bought her pink ones, inevitably, just because Ororo liked pink.
The Cuckoos had a field day on Valentine’s. It never failed. Emma showed up in home room with a big, fat bouquet of red roses from her parents, then “complained” at having too many flowers to stuff into her locker as the teacher began delivering the carnation orders, one name at a time.
It was humiliating.
There were always three or four kids who didn’t get any flowers at all, acknowledged with a shrug, or a simple duck of their face behind a text book. Or, like Ororo, with one lonely white flower (or pink), that she’d carefully tuck into the rings of her binder and carry around all day, watching it wilt.
But freshman year, her order got screwed up. Ororo received a red carnation.
“Ho. Lee. Shit.”
Anonymous.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Ororo’s eyes scanned her homeroom. No one was glancing her way, except Emma and Sophie, who smirked at the solitary little flower clutched in her sweaty grip. She inhaled its musty fragrance. Carnations didn’t smell particularly sweet, but still…red. Bright, passionate, romantic red.
No luck. No one looked like the likely sender. Shit.
She racked her brains all day. Anna caught up to her in the library. They ducked the media lady on her rounds and whispered at a table by the nonfiction section.
“Red? Ya got a red one? Lucky,” Anna Marie hissed. “Ah just got yers, and a white one from Betsy.”
“I don’t know who sent it. I can’t even ask anyone if they sent it.”
“No one was watchin’ ya when ya got it?”
“Nope.”
“Crap.” The librarian peered sternly over the rims of her glasses, silencing them.
They passed notes.
What about that guy in your gym class?
Nah.
There’s that guy that sits in caf 2. You’re in sixth lunch, right?
No. Couldn’t be. That didn’t mean that Ororo didn’t want it to be, however.
Lucas. Bishop.
He was fiiiiiiiine. And he ignored Ororo completely, except for the occasional smirk when she tried to pretend she wasn’t staring. She always liked watching him play ball or hang out with his friends by the lockers in front of the field house.
It was wishful thinking.
Still…
Maybe she willed it. Maybe she’d stared too long again. But he turned and stared at her, long and hard. His eyes flitted over her, landing on the red carnation, slightly dented, protruding up from her binder.
Her feet betrayed her. Before she even rehearsed what she would say, she inched forward. Anna Marie looked up from her carton of milk.
“C’mon and eat, ‘Roro. I wanna fix mah hair before seventh-“
“Oh, fix it, already!” she hissed.
“Girl, where ya going? Oh. Shit. Girl, ya sure ya know what yer doin’? ‘Roro, get back here!” Anna Marie cried in a loud whisper.
Behind her, Anna Marie crossed her gloved fingers, then scratched her eczema from nerves.
There he was, sitting by the window. He peered back up at her, distracted from conversation briefly. He held up his hand to halt the chatter and focus on their new interloper.
“’Sup.”
“H-hi, Luke.” She was about to quiver into a little puddle on the floor, and wanted to disappear into it. “Um. I just wanted to uh, y’know, say hi.” He smirked, leaning back against the edge of the table and crossing his arms.
“That all, girl?”
“Um. H-happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Whatever,” he huffed. He nodded to her limp red flower. “Do you know who gave you that?”
“N-no.” She was hopeful.
Her hopes were dashed.
“Neither do WE!” he crowed. His laughter was harsh. Ororo’s face flooded with heat and shame.
She bolted past Anna. “Roro, how’d it go?”
“Leave me alone,” she whimpered. She escaped to the refuge of the bathroom. The carnation promptly went into the trash, sticking up among the wadded up brown paper towels. She smashed it in more deeply with her fist, then pounded futilely against the mirror.
The ride home on the bus was hell. Ororo hated red carnations, Valentine’s Day, Luke Bishop, the Cuckoos, and herself, plus Anna, for good measure, who if she was a good friend would have tackled her to the ground before letting her walk over there.
Her mother looked up from her stack of bills at the dining table as she stomped inside. “How was your day?”
“Awful.” Ororo dropped her backpack on the chair by the kitchen door. Her pink carnation from Anna Marie tumbled out. Her mother looked surprised.
“That’s the only one? You didn’t get a red one?”
“Why?” Ororo asked sourly.
“Your father wanted to surprise you,” N’Dare said mischievously. “Sent you one on the fly.”
“WHAT???”
“He wanted you to have a red one from a mystery admirer. I put in the order with your school when I dropped off your permission slip for that field trip you went on last week.”
“Oh, God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You guys ruined my life!!!” Ororo darted upstairs. N’Dare sighed, shaking her head.
“How did we do that now?” she muttered, throwing up her hands.
It took an hour of unloading on the phone to Anna Marie, giving the “short version” to her mother, and consuming half a loaf of chocolate chip cookie dough before the humiliation began to fade.
*
Valentine’s Day wasn’t just “any other day.” It was Ororo’s day to fall off the grid. Forget it. Check-out time. High school wasn’t much different. Her only consolation was that Luke wasn’t as cute by the time senior photos rolled around, and she read his name on the police blotter of the local paper a year later for burglary and forged checks. Small consolation.
Ororo hummed to herself as she listened to her voice mails one at a time. Delete. Delete. Archive. Delete.
There was one from Monet. “Hi, girl. Your dress came in. I know you already paid the deposit. You can pick it up any time, but call me when you do.” Shit. It flew her mind.
*
Logan fucked up.
The voice in his head berated him the whole trip downtown on Friday morning.
Valentine’s Day. Madelyne had maneuvered him smoothly. Friday. Six. Slick. Definitely slick.
So there he was. Trapped in a Hallmark Gold Crown store, surrounded by fluffy teddy bears in red shirts that spelled out cheesy messages. “Cold toes, warm heart.” Logan wanted to gag.
This was harder than he remembered. Jean had loved Valentine’s Day, so back then, he knew the drill. Back when he thought he knew Jean.
Jean appreciated gifts that he bought specifically for her, not “ulterior motive” gifts like red lingerie. Give Jean a mylar balloon any day, and she was all set. Roses were also a sure way out of the doghouse. Red and white ones. Logan wasn’t just her husband, he was her best friend. Logan never understood that philosophy, shrugging when he read those words on the card she gave him for their first anniversary. He didn’t marry her because she was his friend; he wanted a mate.
*
But to her credit, Jean started out as a friend. They met at a house party; both of them arrived with dates and ended up by the appetizers, uninterested in the movie Scott’s brother Alex rented. They kept up a nodding acquaintance and continued to run into each other at sporting events. The supermarket. The gym. Jean asked Logan to spot her on the weight bench. His mind wandered to inappropriate places. If Jean noticed, she gave him no clue. There were more parties, more random encounters in restaurants where they gave up pretense of having somewhere else to hurry. They made time to talk.
They went from being acquaintances to confidantes. Before Logan ever shopped for Jean, she helped him pick out reasonable gifts for his girlfriend at the time, Carol Danvers. They had similar tastes and were even the same size. Jean complained about being lonely when Jamie was out of town, playing different venues with his band Madrox and the Multiple Men.
Logan and Jean reasoned that the strain and distance between them and their respective mates had nothing to do with their burgeoning friendship. They never voiced it aloud that it was a lie.
Logan and Carol broke up first. What they had was past its last gasp. Logan came home to Carol standing in his kitchen, with all of her personal belongings she’d kept at his apartment packed up in a duffle. The zipper was still open as she stared him down.
They fought. He paced. She paced. She cried. But he didn’t humor him.
“You’re so damned distant. How can you treat someone you love like this? Who does that?”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What?”
“Carol, darlin’, maybe we don’t love each other anymore.”
She paled and reeled back as though he’d slapped her.
“That was all I needed to know,” she whispered. Her fingers were pressed over her lips to keep from saying anymore, no more damning words that would rip them both apart. Silvery tears slipped down her cheeks, but she was silent as she zipped her bag shut and hurried out. Logan’s words landed on deaf ears, he could only talk to her hand as she slammed the door.
He felt numb. That was all he had left to give Carol and what they had.
Logan never came right out and said “we broke up” when he spoke to Jean next. In the meantime, he was at a loose end.
What he had with Jean was no longer “safe.” A woman in a committed relationship didn’t just stay friends with a single, unattached man, not unless she was asking for trouble.
He was almost ready to congratulate himself on avoiding Jean until the night mulled over the shit in his life over a pitcher of beer at Harry’s. Logan was watching Scott line up the shot that would sink Alex’s last striped ball, running the table for the third time in a row. He’d always joked that his best friend had laser vision. He never missed.
The hairs on his nape stood up as soon as he felt her presence at his back, before she laid hand on his shoulder. Not a tap. A caress. Logan shivered at the scent of her cologne. He knew Jeannie with every sense he owned.
“This seat taken?”
“Hey, Jeannie.”
“Hi, stranger,” she accused. Her green eyes searched his face for clues. She took the bar stool next to his without further invitation. He nodded to the pitcher. She took a plastic cup off the stack beside the cash register and handed it over for him to fill.
“I thought about you the other day,” she told him.
“Yeah?” Logan took a generous swallow of beer and made little eye contact.
“I’d randomly thought of you anyway, and it was a real coincidence when I ran into Carol at Macy’s.”
Shit.
“Ya saw Carol, huh?”
“She looked good. It had been a while. I just ran off at the mouth, and she let me. So you can imagine I felt like a real bitch when I asked her how you were doing, how things were going with you two.” Logan’s laugh lacked humor and he shook his head.
“I ain’t imagining anything of the sort, Red.”
“She said it had been a while.” Jean’s hand appeared again, stroking his forearm exposed by the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt.
She was surprised when he gently collected her hand and removed it, laying it on the bar.
“I bet she did.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Nah. Ya never have. This ain’t yer fault. Not what happened between me an’ Carol.”
“What?” Her red brows drew together in concern. “Logan…?”
“Long story short. Carol and I split, because she thought I wanted ta be with someone else. That wasn’t the main reason why, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it once in a while. More than a guy should think about that kinda thing. Jean…I hate sayin’ anything about it, but this…” he gestured between them. “This, when ya touch me like ya did just now, it’s distracting.” Her hint of a smile evaporated, and she folded her arms over her belly.
“Really. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was being inappropriate.”
“It shouldn’t be, but it is. Not because yer doin’ it.” Logan’s throat felt tight. “Because of how I feel when ya do it.”
“What are you saying, Logan?”
“Whaddya think? Why are ya here alone, talkin’ ta me?”
“I felt like going out.”
“Where’s Jamie?” Jean looked annoyed that he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Whaddya mean ya don’t know?”
“What do you think I mean?” She threw up her hands in frustration. Scott called to them from the pool table.
“Logan, wanna play winner?”
“Nah,” Logan replied. Scott waved to Jean briefly before telling Alex to wrack up the balls.
“I don’t know where he is tonight. I never know where he is anymore. I called his job after he said he was working late. I called his cell. I called one of his band mates and he had no clue, either. So when you add it up, it doesn’t add up. And you know, Jamie doesn’t call me back, but I am getting phone calls from someone who doesn’t bother saying hello whenever I pick up. Weird, huh?” Jean’s posture didn’t stiffen, and she drank her beer casually enough, but Logan’s body went on red alert. She was still sitting too close, smelling too tempting, and sounding too much like a woman scorned.
“Maybe he jus-“
“Fuck maybe. Maybe this, maybe that. Uh-uh.” She shrugged. “I’m tired of guessing. I’m tired of waiting by the phone, and waiting for this to ring.” She took her call out of her pocket and tossed it on the bar. It skittered across the slick surface and bounced off the small tray of drink condiments. Jean helped herself to a maraschino cherry, sucking the sweet off its stem. Logan digested her words.
Then he poured her another beer.
The night progressed with more beer, games of pool (Scott let her win one to be polite), darts (Logan accused her of trying to kill the bus boy when she put too much mustard on her second shot), and a gradual “drift” out to the dance floor when the bar became too crowded. It was late. Logan was past drunk. Jean was venting and repeating herself after making the switch from beer to tequila. The crowd buffeted them. They allowed the tide to sweep them toward the mirrors. It was instinctive on Logan’s part to tug her out of the way whenever anyone looked like they’d back into her.
He was temptingly solid. She clutched at his shirt. “I’m drunk.”
“Eh.”
“No. I mean, really drunk.”
“All riiiiight,” he slurred. “Attagirl.”
“I hardly ever get this drunk. This is your fault.”
“Guilty,” he shrugged. She swayed a little, whether because of the drink or because of the slow song playing over their heads, he couldn’t tell.
Logan didn’t care.
She leaned into him, smiling blearily up into his face. His hand lay in the crook of the small of her back, protective and gentle. He didn’t dance. Jean had her own ideas about that.
“C’mon! Move it, bub! Dance with meeee,” she whined. She slumped against him and leaned her head against his shoulder, craving his shelter. Logan stiffened, then gave in. Logan felt like someone poured warm syrup over him when her arms draped themselves loosely over his shoulders. He fell into step with her and groaned at the feel of her soft, tender curves pressed against him and the painful throbbing it caused between his legs. Damn it…
“Could’ve told me you weren’t together anymore,” she murmured into his ear.
“S’no big deal,” he shrugged.
“Uh-uh. Yes, it is.” Jean’s voice was husky and almost strained.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been waiting a long time, hating myself because of how much I’ve wished for you to tell me that.” He’d been absently stroking her back as they danced; she’d toyed with his collar, growing used to the feel of his neck against her cheek.
His blunt fingernails gently scored her back through the thin sweater she wore, and Jean’s fingers tangled in the back of his hair. She felt him shudder with need.
“Don’t hate me,” she pleaded. He leaned back and stared soberly into her eyes.
“Damn it, Jeannie,” he muttered. Emotions warred within him, but he silenced every voice in his head when he closed in on her, crushing her mouth with his. Time stopped and the music dimmed to a low buzz in their ears. Logan’s skin felt feverish beneath her touch. The kiss was too long, thorough and needy, doing nothing to quench what was burning between them for months.
His entryway wall ended up with a dent in the plaster when the door slammed open on their way into his apartment. They made a drunken stumble toward his room, punctuated by giggling, kisses and curses. Logan didn’t turn on any lights. While he craved the sight of Jean, her voice and the satiny feel of her skin was enough, almost too much for his tipsy mind to handle.
They collapsed onto the bed, hands already tangled in each other’s clothes. He was impatient to have her bare and warm against him; she took mercy on him and reached behind her back, one-handed, and undid the clasp of her bra with a deft pop.
She writhed beneath him, growing accustomed to the feel of him, to his taste as she drained kiss after kiss from his mouth. Her name was both litany and curse, superseding any self control he thought he had every time it left his lips. What began as languorous and slow changed, escalated into groping and possession. He rutted into her, fingers clutching her thick sheaves of hair back from her face.
Once again, she felt like warm syrup poured over him as they lay together, spent. Jean purred and sighed beneath his touch.
“I love you, Logan.” She blamed her candor on the alcohol.
“I ain’t lettin’ ya go.” He could just as easily blame the beer, but no buzz ever felt that good. Left him craving that much more…
He didn’t let her go. Jean didn’t wait for Jamie to make excuses. She moved her things out of his apartment one bright Saturday morning, while he was supposedly “on tour.” Neither of them ever looked back. They married in a small ceremony at Jean’s parents’ church at Annandale-on-Hudson. Both their families saw it as a stepping stone to grandchildren.
Sometimes the best laid plans unraveled despite any effort to hold them together.
*
What was a good Valentine’s Day gift for someone who wasn’t technically his girlfriend? Logan didn’t have a clue.
He eventually settled on a stuffed pink teddy bear. No tee shirts, no saccharine messages. Safe. Not a heart in sight. On his way out, Logan laughed at the panty roses displayed in the window of Frederick’s next door. All of the gag gifts in Spenser’s display made him wish he’d chosen differently.
Logan grabbed himself an Orange Julius at the food court. His cell phone beeped at him; Logan didn’t have a musical ring tone. Somehow, the thought of “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling” announcing his calls at random times, like a meeting, at a grocery checkstand or during a prostate exam didn’t appeal to him.
“This is Logan.” He half-expected Maddie, but it was Scott.
“What are you up to?”
“Last minute stuff.”
“For what? Valentine’s Day?” Scott sounded incredulous.
“Yup. Dinner date.”
“Anyone I know?” Now he sounded hopeful.
“Madelyne Pryor. The cute redheaded account manager. Likes flex plans with flexible spending? Nice legs?” Those were the easiest qualifiers he could come up with. Scott chuckled in recognition.
“She seems pretty nice. Kind of bubbly, I guess.”
“Bubbly. Sure.” Logan wanted to use the term “eager” but left it alone.
“So you’re taking her to dinner?”
“We’re having Szechuan.”
“Do you have a reservation? Every place in town’s gonna be booked.”
Shit.
“We’ll muddle through. Worst case scenario, we go out for ice cream instead.”
“In the middle of winter?”
“Doesn’t melt,” Logan shrugged. He sucked his drink hungrily through the red straw, debating on a hot dog. He scratched that; he still needed to select something from his closet to wear on a semi-casual “safe” dinner.
“Are you gonna get her flowers?”
“Nah. Got a cute little bear.”
“Not too bad,” Scott agreed.
“Didn’t know if she was the chocolate and a card type.”
“Do you usually give cards?”
“Never.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
“Didn’t know ya were a Valentine’s expert.”
“Eh. Been there, done that, got the tee shirt. I bought candy.”
“For what?”
“Just some goodies to set out on my desk.”
“Yer such a mom,” Logan accused. “Suck-up.”
“Don’t knock it. Makes me a chick magnet.”
“Ya gonna get some of those little Valentines ta take ta school, too?”
“Fucker!”
“Roses are red, violets are blue…”
“I get it, I get it. Fuck off, already.” Logan fished in his shopping bag and fiddled with the bear, trying to make it sit upright on the table. “I’m interofficing a little something to the underwriting unit, too.”
“Like what?”
“A little something for Ororo.”
Logan squeezed the bear’s head to relieve the niggling aggravation throbbing in his temples.
“Why? She yer Valentine now?”
“No. I just thought it would be fun.”
“Yeah. It’s just so much fun. The woman’s a barracuda, Summers.”
“She’s a pussycat.”
“That’s what she wants ya ta think.”
“I just think she’ll get a kick out of it. Valentine’s Day is a taken woman’s holiday and another reason for a guy to end up in the penalty box. She’s single, she might enjoy it.”
“Ya thinkin’ she’ll show ya her gratitude?”
“Why do you wanna know?” Scott asked pointedly. “Listen, I’ll let you go. I’m headed to the gym. You watching the UFC fight tomorrow?” Logan was relieved at the change of topic.
“Might, but I’m gonna end up seein’ it at my dad’s or my brother’s if I do.”
“Too bad. Alex ordered it already. He’s planning pizza, maybe a trip to the sports’ bar after for pool.” That beat Logan’s dinner plans by a mile, except for the possibility of after-hours…possibilities.
“Ya have any means of recording it?”
“I’ve got DVR,” Scott said.
“I’ll be in yer debt.” They rang off. Logan took his drink with him after stuffing the bear back in the bag.
What Scott said nagged at him, pulling him back past the store window displays.
A wicked thought crept over him.
He shouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Oh, but he had to…
His errant feet walked him into Spenser’s.
Ten minutes later, his conscience screamed at him That’s just wrong. Scooter’ll kill you. It was worth it…
*
Ororo came back from lunch early and was about to plunge herself back into a pile of spreadsheets when she spied a yellow interoffice envelope on top of her inbox.
“Hello, what’s this?” she murmured. Ororo sat down and unwrapped the string from the tab. She made a sound of surprise as her hand found something lumpy and hard. She withdrew the bag of Dum-Dum lollipops, one of her favorites from her childhood. A square red envelope also slid out onto her desk. Ororo unwrapped a root beer-flavored candy and sucked on it before peeling back the gold foil stick of the card.
The message was cutesy enough, but she jumped back in her seat as it began to play “La Bamba.”
“Gah!” she yelped, nearly dropping it. “Oh…that’s…good grief,” she giggled. She was glad the lollipop was on a stick so she didn’t choke on it.
The “From” line on the envelope showed the Client Services department in the Boston office.
“Scott,” she chuckled, shaking her head. She opened up her email as she enjoyed the candy. “You’re such a brat, boy.”
Subject: Interoffice delivery.
You stinker. Thanks for the treats. I’ll have to hoard these before everyone in my office gets the scent and descends upon my desk like jackals. That was very thoughtful of you.
Ororo
She was just chewing the last crunchy bits from the stick as a new message popped up.
Re: Interoffice delivery.
Sweets for the sweet. Figured chocolate might melt. Doing anything for Single Awareness Day? Ororo rolled her eyes.
Re: Re: Interoffice delivery.
Nada. Ugh. Wake me when it’s over. My couch and I have a double date with a pint of chocolate chip and the remote control.
Ororo sighed as she read her own words, then hit send.
She wasn’t completely surprised when her phone rang minutes later.
“Underwriting, this is Tory?”
“You should go out,” Scott accused.
“Lord have mercy,” she muttered, shaking her head even though he couldn’t see the gesture. “There’s nowhere decent to go, anyway. Every restaurant and movie theater will be packed. I’m thinking about hitting the video rental store at lunch instead of on the way home. The line to the cash register will be a mile long with women like me in ugly sweats and bunny slippers…”
“You have bunny slippers?”
“Something you reveal under threat of death by stapler.”
“Never turn your back on a woman wielding office products. Learned that from an ex of mine.”
“That’s a story I want to hear.”
“Ya don’t wanna know.”
“Now I really wanna know.”
“Seriously, though, you should go out.”
“And your big plan for the night?”
“My plan, my plan…intimate dinner with a real sweetheart.”
“Anyone I know?”
“She goes by the name of Betty. Maybe you’ve heard of her? Betty Crocker?” Ororo snorted. “No. Seriously, my brother is having me over for dinner. His little girl is making cupcakes.” Ororo felt wistful.
“Bless her heart.”
“Say a blessing for me too. I’m gonna hafta eat one. She’s seven. They’ll be dreadful.”
“And you’ll tell her they’re the best thing you’ve ever sunk a tooth into.”
“Bingo.”
“You’re a good uncle.”
“Gives me practice if I ever have a family of my own.” Ororo didn’t turn the phone on speaker, choosing instead to cradle the phone against her chin as she typed out a message to Selene’s admin, Jeanne-Marie. She’d looked two steps away from postal earlier at the coffee pot; Ororo figured she could use a sugar boost.
“I still hate this holiday.”
“Hope you can hate it a little less today.”
“For the moment, I can. Thanks again, Scott.”
“Any time, Ororo.”
“For the record, you can call me Tory, if you want.”
“Do you prefer it? Selene mentioned she has an easier time with it, but once I found out what your real first name was, it seemed silly not to use it. And it’s a great name. Strong. It suits you.”
“All right, then. Ororo it is.” She was pleased, but her smile faltered a bit as she remembered her last exchange with Logan.
He’d looked awfully chummy with Madelyne at the luncheon. Were they…?
She didn’t want to think about it.
He could mess around with whoever he wanted. Big whoop. It wasn’t like she was interested in him, or anything.
Jeanne-Marie breezed in moments later without knocking, swooped down and grabbed a handful of Dum-Dums from the bag, grinning at Ororo.
“Thank you,” she mouthed before she breezed back out. Ororo chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Selene’s admin. She needed a boost and just absconded with some of my loot.”
“It’s Friday. She probably has a lot to do.”
“Don’t we all.” Ororo wasn’t looking forward to her weekly updates or expense reports for her trip to Boston.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” he said, remembering himself.
“Enjoy your cupcake.”
“Take it easy.”
She did anything but. She juggled reports and spreadsheets, benefit summaries and meetings all day. In-between tasks, she thought of Logan.
“Wonder if he’s taking Miss Thang out for Valentine’s,” she mused under her breath. Madelyne wasn’t even that bad, she considered, but she was just too…familiar.
It wouldn’t frustrate her so much if they got along better.
If she didn’t resent him so much…her resentment started to feel misplaced. Really, how long was she going to be mad at him? He approached her that day, right? He wasn’t entirely repugnant?
The trust issue was her own fault, but Ororo thought at the time she was being pragmatic.
There would have been the usual song and dance of empty promises if she’d stayed in the hotel room that morning. Ororo was done with performances like that from Vic.
It nagged her, even after she left work for the night to begin her frustrating, long weekend.
*
Some time after 9PM :
“Nice place,” Madelyne remarked as she nodded in approval of his living room. Her high heels clicked over his hardwood floor. Logan watched her wander around, running her fingertips over side tables and edges of picture frames, smiling.
She wore red. Just the kind of deep scarlet that Logan loved and that heightened her coloring, setting her auburn hair on fire and making her creamy skin more luminous.
Dinner had been promising and relaxing. Madelyne generally made him comfortable, giving him the same eye contact and open body language that made an impression on him on their lunch date. The problem was, he was still on the fence.
Logan didn’t know what he wanted from her, or what he wanted for himself.
“Want anything ta drink?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him as she went back to examining his pictures. “These your niece and nephew?”
“Yep.”
“Cute, cute,” she cooed.
“Ya like kids?”
“I totally want them,” she admitted. “I mean, come on, I have everything else. House, great job, nice car, I’ve traveled and already finished my MBA. I just renewed my pilot’s license.”
“Ya mentioned ya used ta fly planes.”
“The bug bit me again. I don’t know why.” She crossed the room and stood before him, looking slightly coy. “I could take you, if you want.”
Logan raised one brow, a questioning smile on his lips.
“Flying,” she added. “Just say when.”
Logan felt his face grow hot. “Let me think it over.”
“Mmm.” She reached up and toyed with the collar of his shirt. “You looked nice tonight. I enjoyed dinner. We should do it again.”
“Kinda hard ta juggle my work schedule, an’ I know yer busy, but yeah. Sure. I wouldn’t mind.” Now that she was touching him, Logan suddenly felt restless. “Um…why don’tcha sit down for a sec, watch some TV?”
“I’m not really one for television,” she admitted. Her hand flattened against him, caressing his chest. Logan’s nipples hardened into stiff points. Her perfume tickled his nostrils and his pulse pounded in the side of his neck.
“That’s…fine. I’ve, uh, got an early day tomorrow. Headed to my family’s place fer dinner.”
“Okay. I won’t keep you up,” she promised. She was standing so close “ too close “ and her breath steamed his lips.
Indecision was killing him, had been killing him all night.
Dinner was predictable. They joked around over spicy beef and noodles and took in a comedy act downtown. It was shorter than a movie and “safe.” It was a suitable choice for a first date.
His hesitation wasn’t her problem. Madelyne stared at his lips knowingly, then met his eyes as she leaned in and kissed him. Her hand cupped his nape and fingers curled into his hair. Logan went with it, allowing himself to loop his arm around her waist. He made a low sound of surprise as her tongue darted into his mouth.
They came up for air five hungry seconds later. Logan broke the kiss with difficulty and pulled back, gently prying himself loose.
“Are you sure you have to get up early?”
“Yeah. I really do.” She pouted.
“I can’t change your mind?” She was stroking his chest again, unerringly finding his nipple through the thin fabric of his shirt. There was a hard knot of tension in his gut to match the stiff throbbing between his legs. Damn it.
Sure, she could change his mind. His libido screamed in his ear, What the heck is wrong with ya, bub? She’s hot! His fingers twitched, then balled themselves up into fists by his sides.
“Maddie…”
“I can give you a second to make up your mind? Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure,” he agreed easily. She pecked him briefly before he pointed the way to it down the hall. Logan finally breathed again.
He heard her click on the light once she shut the door. His mind raced. His heart raced. Indecision still swamped him.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. Why was this hard?
Really, why?
It didn’t make sense. The usual formula should have made perfect sense. See pretty woman. Flirt with pretty woman. Take pretty woman to dinner. Invite pretty woman inside. Make love to pretty woman until she spoke in tongues. Offer to call pretty woman next week. It all added up. Right?
The sound of her shoes moving quickly back to the living room startled him.
“You know, Logan,” she began, looking slightly flustered, “I might just go, after all. You’re probably right.”
“Eh?”
“You probably have a long drive ahead of you. Dinner was…nice,” she assured him. He reached for her shoulder, and she jerked uncomfortably.
“Ya all right, Maddie?”
“Fine. Just fine. Where did I leave my purse?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Right. Kitchen.” She cleared her throat and practically skipped away.
Now Logan was definitely confused. It seemed like his decision was being taken out of his hands.
She retrieved her small clutch and coat from the back of his kitchen chair and nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned and found him right behind her.
“Mind if I call ya when I get back this weekend?”
“Oh. If you want,” she offered. There was a strange pink flush in her cheeks. Why the heck was she…embarrassed?
Hadn’t she just been coming on to him a few minutes ago?
She didn’t give him time to figure it out. He followed her to his front door as she undid the dead bolts.
“Thank you for a nice time, Logan. I’ll just get moving along.”
“Want me ta walk ya ta yer car?”
“Oh. No. I’m fine. Fine.” She turned and gave him an awkward peck before she backed out into the hallway. “Um, Logan?”
“Yes?”
“I…I just thought I should let you know, I’m…let’s say, I’m an uncomplicated person. My tastes are pretty…conservative. I hope I didn’t make you think otherwise.”
“Huh?” Conservative?
“Good night.” She hurried away in a swish of red hair and flurry of clicking heels.
“’Night.” He slowly closed his door, more confused than ever.
Yet why did he also feel relieved?
Logan sighed as he went back into his living room and clicked on the set. He needed a dose of Letterman more than anything else right now. He moved about the apartment, gathering up comfort items and shucking his date clothes. Within moments, he was clad in sweats, fuzzy socks and bundled under a thick football blanket, devouring a large Tupperware bowl of cereal.
Women. Who could figure them out?
When he got up later to brush his teeth, he drowsily clicked on the light.
There, on the bathroom counter, lay the black furry handcuffs he’d bought at Spencer’s, sitting atop the pink plastic shopping bag. He cocked his head.
“Huh?” It dawned on him that he hadn’t taken them out of the bag earlier; he’d merely parked the bag on the counter while he took his shower to get ready, not giving them a second thought.
Maddie…
Logan slapped his thick palm over his eyes in self-disgust. “Fuck. FUCK!”
His gag gift to Ororo backfired before it had even made it into an interoffice envelope. He was such an idiot…
Without even trying, she was making it impossible for him to forget about her and move on to someone else.
“Conservative,” Logan muttered, tossing down the cuffs. Yet halfway through brushing his teeth, he laughed. And laughed.
That would teach her to rifle through another man’s bathroom cabinets…
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