True Vision (39 page)

He straightened, arms laden with a head of lettuce, a pound of bacon and a jar of Miracle Whip, and bumped the fridge door closed with one lean hip.

“How about a BLT?” he asked as he dumped his bounty on the counter and reached for a tomato sitting on the windowsill above the sink.

“Sounds good,” she said. She hunted up the bread and popped two slices in the toaster.

They worked side by side, like they had dozens of times before, but this time, Alex sensed Logan’s tension. He didn’t tell her about his day at work. He didn’t ask about hers. He didn’t tease her or joke around or ask who she wanted to see in the Stanley Cup finals. As if anyone in Florida really cared about hockey. But he was a Detroit man, born and raised. At any rate, silence—a tense one—was highly unusual for them. Which just made her worry all over again that she’d ruined something really, really good.

When they sat down at the table with their sandwiches and glasses of iced tea, Alex couldn’t stand the awkward silence any longer. She had to force herself to swallow her first bite. This was one of her favorite sandwiches, especially when Logan made it, yet it stuck in her throat like a chunk of dry chicken.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He continued to chew his bite, then washed it down with tea. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

Alex tilted her head, baffled. “What? Why?”

He took another bite, his expression maddeningly unreadable. Once he swallowed, he said, “Do you have plans?”

“Well, no. I thought we’d order a pizza and watch a movie. You know, the usual.”

“What if we go out for dinner?”

“Out? As in to a restaurant?”

The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Yes, out to a restaurant. And we could see a movie afterward. At the theater.”

“You mean, like a date?”

He laughed, low and soft. “Yes, like a date.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So . . . we
are
a thing?”

His blue eyes, so bright and beautiful, darkened with seriousness . . . and serious heat. “Alex, when we’re a thing, you’ll know it.”

And then he grinned, and the sight of those damn sexy dimples swiped any remaining hope of a coherent response right out of her brain.

Oh, yeah.

A
lex wiped her damp palms against her khaki-clad thighs, hyper-aware of the man in the driver’s seat next to her—the minty freshness of his breath, the hint of sunscreen and a touch of something new . . . a light, rain-scented, fresh cologne that teased. Nerves over their date hadn’t launched a full-out attack until his red Dodge Ram pickup had pulled into her driveway. Hadn’t helped that he’d strolled to her front door holding a fresh bouquet of daisies, as relaxed and handsome as ever in new jeans and a white polo that emphasized his muscled, sun-tanned arms.

She’d laughed nervously while she fumbled the flowers into a vase filled with water, feeling silly, and giddy, while he’d loved up her excited pooches. He’d gotten a
haircut
, for God’s sake.

She couldn’t remember ever having such intense nerves over a date.

She acknowledged that everything in her life felt more intense since she technically died three months ago. A man trying to kill her sister had shot Alex by mistake. Her heart had stopped in the operating room, and it had taken three zaps from defibrillator paddles to get her back.

Ever since, she’d felt different. She figured death did that to people. Made them more aware of the people around them. Made them feel emotions—compassion, pleasure, pain—on a deeper level. Or maybe her senses just
seemed
sharper, like a head that felt lighter, and better than before, once a blinding headache faded.

Whatever the cause, she thought she might have developed a serious crush on this man, and she couldn’t stop the big, dumb smile that spread through her entire body.

Afraid he would look at her and wonder what had made her smile so goofily, she cleared her throat and noted he’d pointed the pickup toward Lake Avalon Beach.

“Where are we going for dinner?” She had a craving for the tasty steamed shrimp at Antonio’s Beach Grill.

He glanced sideways at her, his lips quirking up at one corner in a way that twirled her stomach even more.

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“This is weird,” she said, then hated the furious blush that raced up her neck. What was with her and the blurting lately? “I mean, isn’t it?”

He chuckled, low and sexy. “What’s weird? That we’re on a date?”

“Yeah. A date.
Us
.”

“Why are you so freaked out about it?”

“I’m not freaked. Not technically. I mean . . . well, aren’t you? A little? We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“I’m not surprised in the least. This is exactly where I intended to be once the time was right.”

While she appreciated a man who knew what he wanted—and the fact that he seemed to want her was a double, no,
triple
bonus—the timing puzzled her. “Why is now the right time?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re healed. Which means your head is clear and you’re over any of those urges to reaffirm life by jumping on the next guy who smiles at you.”

She remembered a moment several weeks ago when she’d had just that urge. Logan had showed up at her door with the ingredients for hot fudge sundaes and a DVD of the quirky dog- show film
Best in Show
. She’d thought then, This is the man of my dreams.

“And another,” he went on, “you noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

He grinned at her, his blue eyes glittering in a way that sent shimmering waves of anticipation all through her. “You noticed me.”

She felt her eyes widen in shock. “How could I not? You’ve been there for me.”

He shrugged. “That’s what friends do.”

She thought about that for a long moment. Friends didn’t do everything he’d done. Keeping her just busy enough to prevent insane boredom without robbing her of the energy she needed to heal. Taking six rambunctious dogs on long walks when she was too wrung out to give them the attention they deserved. Cooking elaborate, amazing meals for her (and cleaning up afterward). Mowing her yard. Watering her plants. Taking care of her garbage and recycling. Going with her to get groceries. Making her laugh on a bad day. Sitting quietly with her while she napped, probably hoping to prevent the recurring nightmare.

Her sister hadn’t done even half of that, and she’d done plenty.

So “that’s what friends do” was a major overstatement. But that was Logan. The most generous, kind man she’d ever known. And now they were on a date. Which made her wonder if her cluelessness had wasted precious time.

“Could we have gone on a date sooner if I’d said something?” she asked.

“Probably not. You needed to be back to a hundred percent.”

“Oh.” A hundred percent to go on a
date
? She’d been back to work for weeks, had even climbed a tree yesterday to get the perfect photo of a Lake Avalon resident’s prizewinning flower garden.

“This is going to be intense,” he added.

Her heart thudded, along with other, secret places. “
Oh
.”

“Just so you know.”

“Okay.”

“Not to make you more nervous.”

“Nervous? Me?” She shot a grin at him, relaxing for the first time since he’d arrived with such pretty, sweet flowers.

“Well, you have been squirmy since I picked you up.”

“Squirmy?” Great. Perfect. No sophistication here. She was
such
a doofus. “That sounds—”

“Adorable,” he cut in. “You’re adorable.”

She blushed again—doofus squared—and thought maybe she’d somehow suddenly become the luckiest woman on the planet. Hell, maybe Logan was her reward for surviving the shooting.

Before she could respond, he stiffened in his seat and slammed on the brakes. Alex braced a hand on the dashboard, wincing at the jerk of the seat belt across her still-tender chest . . . and watched in shock as the van in front of them tipped onto its side and began to violently roll across the oncoming lane of traffic. Miraculously, it hit no other vehicles before it rocked to a scratched-and-dented stop, upright in the ditch, its windshield a web of cracks beneath a caved-in roof.

Logan steered the truck onto the shoulder of the road, already releasing his seat belt and reaching into the cubby for his cell phone, which he handed to Alex. “Call 911,” he said, his voice deadly calm.

Speechless, Alex fumbled the phone, her hands shaking. Whoever was in that van might be dead, was undoubtedly dead if they hadn’t been wearing seat belts. And, oh crap, was that a trail of smoke snaking out from underneath?

Logan didn’t hesitate to shove open his door and sprint over to the destroyed van, easily falling into his role as a competent police detective, while she stumbled out of the truck, her fingers clumsy as she tried twice to dial the necessary numbers.

Other cars were stopping, drivers and passengers getting out and gawking. Alex heard a man say, “I already called 911,” as he walked up beside her. That allowed her to shift her attention from the damn phone to Logan as he tore open the van’s driver’s-side door and dragged out a screaming woman with blood pouring from a gash at her temple.

“Get my baby! Get my baby!”

“Hell,” the guy next to Alex said. “Her back tire blew. I saw it explode just before the van flipped.”

Alex’s journalistic training snapped into gear, and she dove back into the cab of Logan’s truck and dug through the camera bag she hauled around everywhere she went. Digital camera in hand, she ran back to the scene, where she started snapping photos of Logan as he delivered the hysterical woman to bystanders running up to help. Then he turned back toward the van, that, yes, was definitely smoking now. Big, black clouds, the kind that looked to Alex like a precursor to a fiery explosion.

She should help, she thought. Run over there and do something. But she couldn’t move, her heart in her throat and her feet frozen to the ground as Logan jerked the bottom of his shirt up and over his mouth and nose and plunged into the billowing smoke. Oh, God, he shouldn’t do that. What if he got hurt? But it was his job as a police officer to help.

She belatedly remembered her own job and snapped a picture of his disappearing back. That’s what photojournalists do. They record the story. They don’t get involved.

As she waited for him to reappear, counting the seconds, her eyes stinging from the acrid air, she heard sirens in the distance. It all seemed so far away, her focus having narrowed down to the spot where she’d last seen Logan. She should have been taking more pictures of the chaotic rescue scene, but fear for him had constricted her chest muscles so much she could barely breathe.

Logan, come on, come on, where are you?

And then he stumbled out of the smoke with a small child cradled in his arms.

She released her held breath on a gust of air and brought the camera up to take the picture, already knowing it would make headlines. There was nothing newspaper readers loved more than a ragged hero streaked with blood, carrying a crying, soot-smudged child away from wreckage that looked like no one should have survived. Especially a hero as good-looking as John Logan, his eyes even more blue and penetrating in a face blackened by smoke, the child looking tiny and defenseless in his large, muscled arms.

That’s my guy, Alex thought, her heart swelling with pride. My hero.

He delivered the bawling child to her mother and turned toward Alex, his eyes streaming from the smoke, sweat making his hair spike. He was filthy, and she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him, to feel his beating heart against her. He could have died in that van.

He stopped before her, and she looped her camera strap around her neck so she could put her arms around him and hug him. He tried to hold her off with a laugh. “I’m a mess.”

“I don’t care.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him for the first time, and the instant their lips touched, everything around her made a dizzying shift . . .

This
child’s not dying, damn it.

But I’ve got the girl, this sweet, warm, wriggly child, in my arms, and nothing else matters.
This
time, I saved the—