Chapter 190

“It’s not a matter of forgiveness,” I said, awakening from my post-coital glow. I rolled away from him and sat up, dangling my feet over the edge of the bed. He moved toward me and did the same. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You rejected her, and I’m glad for it.”

“I wasn’t even tempted,” he assured me.

I didn’t know I needed that assurance, but I was pleased to have it.

“I’m just so tired, Logan. Tina keeps intruding on our lives. If we could stop hiding…” I sighed. “I know the reasons we have to keep us secret, but it’s so frustrating. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. Tina rubbing it in just makes everything so much more difficult.”

Logan listened critically, which alone felt like a relief. But then, he added even more by saying, “When I get home, I’ll speak with Dylan, look into the contract, and figure out what we can do about Tina.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You don’t have to thank me for something I should have done from the start,” Logan said. “You’ve warned me about Tina. I kept pushing her off. But, I think you are right. She doesn’t seem the type to want to let this go. Unfortunately, that does leave the matter of my grandfather.”

“You think she’ll try to tell him something?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Logan looked down at his hands for a moment, but then shook his head and smiled at me instead. “Hey, enough talk about this, okay? I came to see you. I want to spend time with you, not her.”

I leaned into him and he wrapped his arm around me. I giggled as he placed kisses along the side of my neck.

Too easily, we became distracted again.

Near midnight, we were awake again, hanging out in our pajamas in my kitchen as I whipped us up a quick dinner on the stove top. Logan was in charge of making garlic bread and was manning the toaster. So far nothing burned down, so that felt like a success.

We had a good time, sneaking each other smiles and kisses.

“Two weeks is too long,” we both agreed and each promised to try to visit each other every weekend instead.

At my small two person table, we ate our meal. When we finished, we lingered there, the air between us comfortable and quiet.

Finally, Logan opened up.

“I always knew that the Christopher’s weren’t my real parents,” Logan said. “It was never a big deal, though. They were more than good enough parents, better than my own in every respect. Everything was fine. Money was tight, but we made do. I was happy there.”

“But then your birth parents came back,” I said.

“Yes. One of my older cousins quit the business to pursue an art degree,” Logan said. “He moved halfway across the world to escape my grandfather. In his absence, the Hatfield’s needed an heir. My parents didn’t want me back, they were told to get me.”

I reached across the table and placed my hand on his wrist. He draped his free hand over mine and laced our fingers together.

“My parents didn’t want me when they had me. I was sent to boarding school and forgot about, until it was time to drag me back to fulfill my legacy.”

“Did you try to reach out to Frank and Tammy?” I asked.

“No, Logan replied and looked down at our hands. “When I first met grandfather, he made several things very clear to me. The Christopher’s never cared about me either… It was only ever about the money with them.”

I considered the modest house where the Christopher’s lived and their old furniture and dishes. They certainly didn’t live like a couple only interested in money.

“Are you sure?” I asked Logan. I didn’t want to hurt him but bringing up painful memories but the couple I met didn’t match that picture at all. If they did, they wouldn’t still have Logan’s pictures or keep that #1 Dad mug. Unless they were trying to manipulate me? But for what purpose?

Before I walked into their house, they didn’t even know that I knew Logan.

“Is it possible, knowing your grandfather, that he wasn’t being truthful?” I asked.

Logan’s brow furrowed as he considered the words. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair.

“The first time I met grandfather, I was terrified,” Logan said. He laughed slightly then, self-deprecatingly. “Honestly, he’s still terrifying. But he was always so authoritative. I guess I never considered… He was always so logical…”

Logan shook his head. “The Christopher’s have reached out to me over the years. Twice a year usually. Always around Christmas. What could they want if not money?”

“Their son?” I asked. “Home for Christmas?”

Logan’s face crumpled further, and I felt terrible. What if I was wrong and he was right? Could I only be setting him up for more heartbreak by giving him hope?

No. That couldn’t be. They were good, honest people. Logan’s grandfather was still manipulating everyone, forcing people where he wanted them like chess pieces on a board.

“They kept your pictures,” I said. “They say it’s there tribute wall. Not just that, they’ve also been following your success.”

“To find out how much money I’m worth, I’m sure,” Logan said, though he didn’t sound as convinced as before.

“They framed the newspaper from when you first got the job as CEO,” I said. “I’ve seen it. You should have seen Tammy’s face when I spotted it. They are both so proud.”

“I appreciate what you are trying to do, Hazel, but –”

“Your dad kept the mug,” I said, my last effort. I’d let it go after this. But I had to give it one last shot, just in case they truly had been missing each other.

He lifted his gaze up to me. “Number one Dad?”

I nodded. “It’s worn. The bottom edge of the one is scuffed a little.”

“I did that,” Logan said. “I was trying to make his coffee one morning to surprise him. I nearly dropped the mug, but it did chip.”

That was the same one I had seen. “They still have it. They gave me my coffee in it.”

Logan went quiet again. I tried to imagine what it must have been like from his perspective. Thanks to his grandfather’s influence, Logan had convinced himself that he had never been wanted by any of his family. His only value to anyone, he thought, was to be an heir and make money.

Knowing this, it was understandable now why he often took the actions that he did, and why it was so hard for him to break the mold for anyone, even me.

In my mind, I could see the young, scared twelve-year-old boy standing in his grandfather’s shadow, heartbroken, believing that the only parents he had ever known didn’t actually want him.

Immediately, I rose from the table and came around it. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held him as tightly as I could. He placed his hand on my arm and leaned into me.

His heartbeat was frantic, and in turn, mine was too.

“Hazel,” he said, after a while.

I hummed in acknowledgement, to let him know I was listening.

“I’d like to call them,” he said. “The Christopher’s.”