“Your dad will have one more reason to hate me,” he says. He squeezes my hand, though.
One of the models approaches us and lays a hand on Logan’s arm. “Would you like to dance with me?” she asks.
He shakes his head and politely declines. Then he adds, “I’m going to dance with my girl.” He takes my hand and pulls me out onto the floor. He smiles down at me. “I can’t feel the beat to this kind of music.”
He looks around at the other couples. I see my dad step onto the floor with the model who approached Logan, and I roll my eyes. Logan takes me in his arms, his hand holding mine. He pulls me close to him, just a breath away, not touching, and my heart starts to flutter. Will I ever get used to being with this man who makes me feel so perfect?
He picks up the rhythm of the music by watching the other dancers. “You’re pretty good at this,” I say. He just smiles and shrugs. “Mom made us all take dance lessons when we were young. Paul did a year of ballet before he grew enough balls to tell her he wouldn’t do it anymore.” He chuckles. I’ll never enjoy a sound more than that of his laughter.
When we first met, he didn’t speak at all. He started talking again for me, and it took him even longer to learn to laugh. Sometimes he can’t tell how loud he is, and he doesn’t alter his voice well enough for the situation.
This is one of those times.
My dad shoots me a glare. I look up at Logan and just smile.
“What’s bothering you?” he asks.
“Not a thing,” I say. And it’s not. I’d trade my right arm for his voice, if someone told me I had to choose between the two. Hearing his words, his laughter and his thoughts means the world to me.
My dad dances close to us, and suddenly, he’s pulling us apart and taking Logan’s place. “You don’t mind if I cut in, do you?” he asks Logan, but he doesn’t look at Logan when he says it.
Logan raises a curious brow at me. I mouth the word sorry to him. He smiles and shakes his head.
My dad abandoned his dancing partner on the floor, and she approaches Logan and holds out her arms. Logan looks down at her for a moment, and I see his chest bellow with a sigh before he takes her hand in his and puts one on her waist. I don’t like it. Not at all.
“Stop looking like that, Emily,” my dad warns. “The boy is doing fine.”
“I’m not worried, Dad,” I protest. Well, I kind of am. Logan isn’t used to these kinds of parties. There are a lot of people here who make a lot of money.
“Mmm hmm,” he hums. He spins me around in a circle, and surprisingly, it makes me laugh. My dad looks happy.... Something is up. I can feel it.
He skirts around the edges of the dance floor until I lose sight of Logan completely. “You can do better, Em,” he says. “A lot better.”
I grit my teeth together. “Define better, Dad,” I toss back. “I highly doubt that I can do better than a man who loves me like crazy, who will care for me and be there for me for the rest of my life.”
“He’s not our kind, Em,” my dad says.
“He’s not your kind, Dad,” I breathe out on a heavy sigh. “He’s most definitely my kind.”
“You can do better.” He pinches his lips together in a straight line. “Trip is afraid that you think you can’t do better than Logan because of your dyslexia.”
I stop and step back. “What?” He may as well have kneed me in the gut. Trip said as much to me, but I never expected my dad to even entertain the idea. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“Then let me be,” I say. I step back, and I walk around the edge of the dance floor looking for Logan. I am seething. The crowd parts to get out of my way. Except for Trip. Trip steps up beside me and holds out his arms for a dance.
“No, thank you,” I grit out.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, as though he’s all concerned.
“Nothing.” I don’t want to talk to Trip.
“You’re angry because Logan went outside with that girl?”
My eyes immediately meet his, and then his gaze skitters away. “What girl?” I ask. The girl he was dancing with? “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, but they were looking pretty chummy.” He shrugs and points toward the terrace.
Logan is coming in the door at the same time I’m going out it. He’s tucking his shirt into his pants. My heart stops. He brushes the curls from his forehead and blows out a frustrated breath.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“With Trip’s decoy, I’d suspect.” He takes my elbow and pulls me toward the terrace, and I can now see that it’s empty. She must have gone in the adjoining door. “I can’t believe he did that to me.” He looks off into space and rocks his head back and forth. “Well, actually, I can. He’s Trip, after all.”
“Did what?” I’m so confused.
“She said she was feeling sick and needed some air. And that she was so lightheaded she couldn’t walk by herself. So I brought her out here. Then her illness turned into octopus hands.” He gropes at me frantically, imitating her movements. His eyes narrow at me. “Did Trip send you out here?”
He did actually. “What difference does that make?”
“That sorry fucker tried to set me up,” he growls. He smacks his hand against the wall. “I’m going to kill that little dicksmack.”
I lay a hand on his chest, and he closes his eyes. “She put the moves on you?” I ask.
“If you call those moves,” he says. He covers my hand with his, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart. “It was more like she wanted to drop and suck my dick. It was all I could do to get away from her.”
I cover my mouth. It’s not funny. It’s really not. But a laugh bubbles through. He looks so discouraged. He balls his hands into a fist. “I’m sorry,” I say, when his eyes narrow at me.
“You think this is funny,” he says, and he steps toward me, forcing me to take a step back. My back touches the wall, and his hands land on each side of my head, boxing me in. “You find it amusing, do you?” But his voice has gentled, and he nuzzles his lips against my neck.
“Well, the look on your face was pretty priceless,” I say. He finally grins.
“The look that said I needed to get the f**k out of there?” He kisses me softly and tenderly, and I realize he has a smudge of lipstick on his cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb.
“Did she kiss you?” I ask.
“It was more like I had to play ‘Dodge the Kisses,’” he says. “She was determined to get lipstick on me.”
I wipe at a smudge that’s on his neck. This should make me angry. They’d hoped to make me angry at Logan. But I’m really just sad. It hurts me that they would try such a thing on such a good man. “I’m sorry,” I say as I place my head on his chest again. He takes a deep breath, and I can feel the tension drain from him.
My mom pokes her head out onto the terrace, her gaze worried. “There you are,” she says. “It’s time for dinner.”
“Do you want to go home?” I ask Logan. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
He arches an incredulous eyebrow. “And let them win? Fuck no. Have you lost your mind?”
He takes my hand and pulls me toward the family table. Both Dad and Trip look sheepish, and Mom looks lost.
“Nice try,” I say beneath my breath.
“Em,” Trip says.
“We’ll discuss it another time,” I say to cut him off.
Trip nods. I’m afraid I’ve just given him hope where there is none—and never will be any.
Logan
I can’t believe they f**king did that. Of all the lowdown, dirty, underhanded tricks to play… I pull out a chair for Emily so she can sit down and scooch her closer to the table. I sit down beside her. The waiter brings us a modified menu and leaves them in front of us. The dinner has limited choices.
Trip opens his mouth and starts to read the menu out loud.
“Stop it,” Emily snaps.
Trip looks up, his mouth still open, paused on a word. “I was just trying to help. I know how much you hate menus.”
I want to punch him in the f**king face.
“I’ll be fine,” Emily says. She leans over my shoulder and looks down at my menu. “What are you having?” she asks, smiling at me. I know she’s not reading the menu. She never does. She wouldn’t, particularly with all these people watching. She keeps her dyslexia a closely guarded secret. And she will refuse to show weakness, even at a table full of people who already know.
“I’m trying to decide between the chicken, beef, and fish,” I say, giving her an out.
“Which one of the chicken dishes appeals to you?” she asks.
She wants chicken. Okay. Let’s go for clue number two. “Chicken parmesan.”
Her face lights up. “Ooh, I’ll have that, too,” she coos.
“I think I’m going to have the filet,” I say to the waiter. “Medium.”
“I thought you wanted chicken,” she says.
I shake my head. I just wanted to be sure she had her choice of chicken. She understands immediately, and my heart warms at the genuine happiness on her face. It’s so f**king easy to make this woman happy. So easy. Anyone with a heart and half a brain could do it. But I’m lucky because she picked me.
Trip snarls at us from the other side of the table. He looks pretty unhappy. “Who was the blonde, Logan?” he asks. “You two looked pretty good together.”
I take a sip of my water. “You tell me, Trip,” I say.
“How should I know?” he asks. “I think she’s one of the models. Definitely not someone I’d hang out with.”
“Why not?” Emily asks, her smile sweet. “She doesn’t make enough money?”
I bite back a laugh. Dinner arrives, and it’s really difficult to read lips when people are eating, so I miss parts of the conversation. Dessert comes next, and I can catch more as the forks and the cups slow down.
“Emily,” her dad says. “The congressman and his son are here. I’d like for you to go and meet them.” He stands up and holds out his hand.
She takes it, looking over her shoulder. I sign the word fine at her really quickly and nod. She can go; I’ll be all right.
Mrs. Madison is talking to a woman on her right, and Trip is glaring at me. So, I take out the notepad that’s always in my pocket, pull the nub of a pencil from the spirals at the top, and start to sketch. Mr. Madison has a tricky problem within his ad campaign, and I can solve it, so I want to get it down on paper. He may never use it, but if he does, it may score me some points with him. I doubt it. But maybe.
I put my ideas on paper, sketching words and scenes that might be a commercial or print advertising. I’m totally engrossed in my ideas when Emily returns. She sits down beside me and says, “I’m back.”
“My world is now complete,” I respond.
She rolls her eyes and leans over to kiss me quickly. “That was cheesy,” she says.
I shrug. I don’t care. It’s true.
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking down at my sketch.
“Doodling,” I say, grinning at her. She snags the notepad and flips through the pages.
“These are really good,” she says. She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide. “I mean, really, really good.” She passes my pad back to me, and I shake my head.
“Probably not worth the effort,” I say.
She heaves a sigh. “Probably not.”
I lay my pad on the table and stand up. “Come and dance with me,” I say. I pull her into my arms and spin her around the dance floor. She’s breathless when we come back.
I look around for my sketch pad. “Hmm,” I say. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” she asks, her cheeks rosy and her breaths quickened.
“My notepad.”
She worries her lower lip. “Maybe one of the servers picked it up by accident?” she suggests. “Do you want me to ask?”
I shake my head. “It was just a notepad.” I have a lot of them, and they end up scattered all over the house. But as a deaf man, you never know when you might need one.
She looks at me shyly and says, “Can we go and dance some more?”
I’d do just about anything for her. So, we go and dance the rest of the night away.
Emily
It’s more than a little awkward when my dad’s limo pulls up in front of Logan’s apartment building to drop him off. He looks at me like he wants to take me with him, and I want to go. But my dad is in the car, and I know he won’t like it. I nudge Logan’s leg, and he reaches over, offering his had to my dad.
“Thank you for the wonderful evening, Mr. Madison,” he says. He smiles at my mom. “And Mrs. Madison.”
Begrudgingly, my dad takes his hand. Logan looks down at me one more time, kisses my forehead, and then the driver opens the door. He gets out of the car and I follow behind him.
“You’re staying?” he asks, his face lighting with hope.
I shake my head and nod toward the car. “No. He’s going to take me to my apartment.”
His face clouds and he looks up at the stars, breathing in a long breath. I don’t want to leave him. I want to stay here. This is home. Not my apartment and certainly not with Trip Fields.
My stomach twists with the knowledge that I won’t get to sleep in his arms tonight. He won’t throw one leg over my na**d bottom and hold me close to him.