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Logan nodded, then lowered Leo carefully to the bed. But when he tried to settle Leo onto the mattress, the little boy’s arms tightened around his neck. He was glad he had to be quiet. There were no words for the feel of Leo’s child’s breath against his neck, the smell of chocolate chip cookies and the tang of little boy sweat.
He eased Leo’s hands from around his neck and settled him into the bed, then covered him with his sheet and comforter.
“Night, big guy,” he whispered, stroking Leo’s dark hair away from his forehead.
He stepped away from the bed and left the room, then watched from the hall as Ella kneeled next to her son’s bed. She draped an arm over his small form, lay her head near his on the pillow, and kissed his cheek.
“Night,mijo,” she murmured.
It was the first word of Spanish Logan had heard her speak since he’d been in Chicago, and he wondered if that was one of the things she’d left behind. She’d once spoken it often, the words flying back and forth between her and her parents, her sisters.
Logan had caught snippets, but he’d never been fluent. Still, he’d enjoyed listening, had loved that Ella had a secret language with her family. Watching her with Leo was like discovering she spoke yet another language, this one made up of laughter and reassurance, of safety and sleepy kisses.
She rose to her feet and left the room, stepping into the hall beside Logan and pulling the door halfway shut.
She sighed and looked up at him with a smile. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He meant it.
“I should go clean up.”
He followed her down the stairs and picked up their plates while she turned off the TV. She followed him into the kitchen with his empty beer bottle and her wine glass, and he set about putting everything in the dishwasher.
“He does dishes too,” she said with a soft chuckle.
“I’m a bachelor,” he said. “If I didn’t do them, no one would.”
“You don’t have a housekeeper?” she asked.
“I have someone who comes once a week to do the heavy cleaning. The rest is all me. Want me to start this?” he asked.
“Nah. We’ll wait for morning, when there are more dishes.”
He liked this, liked the everyday-ness of it, the way she used the wordweeven though she might have meant her and Bea.
He closed the dishwasher and turned to find her watching him, just a couple of feet away where she leaned against the kitchen island. Silence drew taught between them.
“Will you stay?” she finally asked.
“Tonight?” he asked.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Until this is over.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked softly.
“It’s not a bad one.”
Were they still talking about the guest room? He didn’t know. The conversation was loaded with meaning he was afraid to interpret. He told himself to stay put, or better yet, to walk away — to his car outside or even the guest bedroom upstairs.
Anywhere but here, standing in the quiet kitchen filled with the life he’d always wanted.
Filled with her.
He stepped toward her slowly, reading her body language for signs that she might turn away.
That she might not want him.
She held his gaze, and when he stopped just a couple of inches away, she looked up at him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
