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“One hell of a sentence,” I repeat, nodding, trying to summon some gratitude.
It’s not fair for me to be so distant. Logan hired this top-of-the-food-chain lawyer, meaning Joel’s most likely going to end his days in prison, but I don’t feel a thing. Just tired.
“I wanted to give you this too,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “I know I’ve asked before, but the big man’s giving a speech at next week’s meeting. I thought maybe you might be interested.”
I take the card and study it. It shows the time and address of a community center, with added information that Logan Locke will be giving a speech about his charity, their work, and how to move on after a catastrophe.
There’s a small photo of Logan on one side. I find myself wanting to stare at it, to disappear into it, but I don’t let myself.
Not here.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I’ll try to make it.”
He offers his hand. “I’m sorry this happened, Miss Jacobs, but I am relieved we were able to see justice done. I hope to see you at the support group next week.”
“Thank you.” We shake hands. “I couldn’t have done this without you. You’ve done amazing work.”
He nods and walks down the steps.
I can feel Jane staring at me. When I look at her, I’m right, and she’s got a playful smile on her lips. She wipes it away when she sees me looking. I can see her thinking,Not the time and place for jokes, Jane Lane.
“What?” I ask as we walk down the steps.
I’m still itching to look at that photo of Logan, though it would be absolutely freaking pointless.
I could open any tabloid newspaper or go to any celebrity gossip site and find dozens of photos of him.
“Nothing,” Jane says innocently.
I could find photos of him spilling out of bars with a woman on each arm or posing at some celebrity function with a supermodel at his side. He always has a somber cast to his eyes, that pain speaking to his story and his reason for starting the charity.
My insides shiver, and not with sadness, when I think about Logan Locke, the way he is now, at forty-one years old, not the black-haired machine he was on the football field.
I think of silver hair, his haunted brown eyes, his clean-shaven face, and his massive muscular body, the way he always seems ready to erupt out of whatever outfit he’s wearing.
I hear his voice, remembered from interviews, and can’t help but imagine him saying things he’d never say to me in real life.
I want you all to myself. I need you.
I don’t want anybody else.
But that’s not true.
Logan Locke is a playboy, not my dream man, even if I can’t stop dreaming about him.
“I was just thinking,” Jane says as we walk toward the parking lot, the afternoon sun blazing down. “It’s a chance to get some eyes on your prize.”
I laugh sarcastically. “Oh yeah. I’m going to march right into that support group and woo the playboy. That’sexactlywhat’s going to happen.”
“Never say never,” Jane teases lightly, climbing into the car.
I get into the passenger seat, glad I don’t have to drive.
“Areyou okay?” Jane asks, reaching over and gently touching my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I keep trying to think what I’d say if this happened to one of my patients. You know, when I go back to college and get my butt in gear, I can evenhavepatients one day.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only been eight months.”
