Page 11 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

Chapter Six

LOGAN

No matter how old I get, sitting in the front seat of Dad’s cruiser will never not be awesome. As soon as I was big enough, sometimes Dad would take me around town and let me pretend we were hunting for bad guys. I even had my own handcuffs—they were made from a flimsy plastic, but still.

I’d press my nose against the passenger window, imagining lanky burglars dressed in black with matching masks that only had holes for the eyes and mouth. They’d have massive bags of money slung over their shoulders, headed for their getaway car.

But they’d never see me coming. I’d be there to catch them—and I’d save the entire town and keep everyone safe in their homes.

But playing pretend police lost its magic as the years went on, and I traded plastic handcuffs for sketch pads. I loved to take what was in my head and put it all down on paper. Random things at first. Doodles.

My favorite cartoon characters I’d sketch from memory. Still-life was fun too, like Dad’s favorite coffee mug or the police badge that he hung with pride in his office.

Dad wasn’t disappointed when my dreams shifted. He’d always supported me. He never expected me to follow in his footsteps with law enforcement, even if everyone else in this town did.

But then I had this fascination with houses.

“One day, I’ll have my dream house, baby. I’ll finally have that wraparound porch with the swing to match so you and me can drink sour lemonade together. And forget the stairs. No one wants to deal with stairs when you get older. It can be bad for the knees—you know that right, baby?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, but the living room needs to be wide open so we can play games and watch movies together. I can watch you sketch new dreams from the kitchen while I make your favorite foods like spaghetti with meat sauce and ? —”

“Sloppy Joes!”

“Yes, of course! How could I forget? And I want a large bay window looking out to my garden in the backyard. We can plant all sorts of things together and play in the dirt. How does that all sound?”

“Good. I’ll make it for you.”

“My house?”

“Mhmm. I’ll make it the best because I’m going to build houses. Will that make you happy?”

“ You make me happy, Logan. Just you .”

I used to draw houses. All kinds—big, small, modern, classic. I got so good at it, I ended up going to school for it. Even after she left us, the dream of designing homes never left me.

Not even when she walked away from ours.

“Son? Did you hear what I said?” Dad’s voice rips me away from my thoughts. He’s looking at me from over the laptop that sits between us. His eyes flit back to the road as we drive toward Main Street.

“Sorry, Dad. What did you say?”

“I said I have a date tonight.”

I grin and reach over, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. My dad hasn’t been on a date in years. I’ve encouraged him on more than one occasion to get back on the horse, but this man was always so hung up on my mom. She didn’t deserve his pining.

“No shit? That’s awesome, Dad! Who’s the lucky lady?”

For someone who has a date tonight, he looks like he’s got a stick up his ass. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter with one hand while the other rubs nervously up and down his thigh.

My dad is a good-looking guy. He keeps himself fit by working out multiple times a week.

Running, lifting weights. He’s even picked up boxing.

The age lines on his face are there, but they make him look mature.

Well respected. We share the same sandy blond hair, and I’m grateful he gave me his hairline.

He’s a total catch. Any woman would be lucky to have his attention.

But the way his face twists with uncertainty has me ready to give him a man-to-man pep talk.

“Why are you nervous, Chief? You know you’ve got every woman in this town in the palm of your hand, right?”

“I don’t care about all of that,” he says softly. There’s a distance in his gaze, a look I know all too well. One I’d hope would fade with time. One I can’t bear witness to anymore, because for the hundredth time— she doesn’t fucking deserve it.

“Oh, come on,” I sigh. “Listen, Dad. You deserve to be happy. When are you going to let go? She’s not coming back.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face,” I clip back, scrubbing a frustrated hand over my jaw.

How many times am I going to have this conversation with him? Anytime my mother is concerned, the parental roles reverse. I shouldn’t have to be talking my dad off the ledge because he isn’t over his ex-wife.

“You’re one to talk, Son. Do you think I’m dumb enough not to see the women you keep at arm’s length? Are you ever going to settle down one day instead of playing these games?”

I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting a little. I want to say it’s partially his fault. He loved my mother with everything he had, and look where that shit got him. But I know better and bite my tongue before I say something I’ll regret.

It’s a nice diversion though, I’ll give him that.

“We’re not talking about me right now. We’re talking about you and your weird loyalty to your ex-wife.”

Angry memories rush in, overwhelming every sense as I struggle to steady myself. Only talk of my mother has the power to shake me like this—make me see red.

I see lonely nights. Shouted arguments echoing down hallways. Endless hours spent asking why she betrayed my dad the way she did. Questions without answers that have followed me for years—and probably always will.

How fucked is that?

My temples throb with the dull ache that comes from a conversation going nowhere. This was supposed to be a quick joyride in the cruiser, a chance for us to hang out before he went back to work.

Instead, we’re circling the same tired argument we’ve both outgrown but can’t seem to stop having.

Dad lets out a tired breath and turns onto Main Street, heading toward the diner where I’m meeting Donovan for a late lunch.

“Her name is Diane. Divorced. No kids. She’s a labor and delivery nurse at the hospital in Holly Hill. She’s also the niece of Ms. Lisa over at the station. That’s who set us up.”

This is Dad’s way of saying he doesn’t want to talk about my mother anymore. A white flag. I accept it because I hate arguing with the man I look up to the most. My dad is my hero. I’ll never understand why he won’t move on, but at least he’s going on a date—a step in the right direction.

“That’s nice, Dad. I hope you have a great time.”

He parks the cruiser next to Donovan’s truck right in front of the diner. I see Donovan through the window, already in our usual booth, a cup of coffee in hand. Dad stares ahead for a few seconds before turning his attention to me with a small grin.

“It feels like old times, before you boys had your licenses, and I had to drive all around town to take you places.”

I may be twenty-eight years old, but the look my dad gives me tells me I’m still that little kid with the big imagination, playing cops and robbers in the front seat of his cruiser. I lean over the center console, pulling him in for a hug.

“I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, Son.”

After two firm pats on the back, he waves me off as I open the door to the diner. The bell rings, and the old bird Mrs. Dickson is practically sprinting toward me. There’s no way to avoid her, so I toss her a charming smile as she slams our chests together, circling her arms around my waist.

She’s been shamelessly flirting with Donovan and I since we were eighteen. It was kind of a running joke at first, but now we think she seriously would bite if we threw her a bone.

“Logan Harper. My, oh my, it is so good to see you. Did you two boys come during my shift on purpose?”

Donovan’s snort is loud enough for the entire diner to hear. No one pays us any mind, though. The whole town knows Mrs. Dickson’s antics. She’s thrice divorced and loves younger men, but she’s truly harmless.

“Of course, Mrs. Dickson. You’re our favorite waitress.”

She squeezes me once more, the overwhelming scent of baby powder tickling my nostrils. She’s always smelled this way, like she literally dips her face and neck with it before leaving her house.

Mrs. Dickson gives me a light swat on my bottom with her order pad as I make my way toward Donovan.

“Good to see she hasn’t changed,” I mumble to Donovan, sliding into the vinyl booth across from him.

“Be glad she didn’t kiss you on the cheek. I don’t know what kind of lipstick she wears, but the mark took forever to come off. I ordered for us, by the way.”

I grimace as I watch him scrub his cheek back and forth with his napkin.

“Thanks.”

Throwing his napkin down, Donovan crosses his arms over his chest with a smug smirk on his face. Tilting his head, he tells me with his eyes he has something to give me shit about.

“Spit it out, D.”

Mrs. Dickson saunters over to our table, pouring fresh coffee into my mug. I give her a wink to say thanks, which earns me a hard pinch to the apple of my cheek.

I take a sip, letting the bold flavors of the roast warm my stomach. Donovan leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“When were you going to tell me you and Tia are hooking up?”

Hot coffee singes my nostrils as I choke on his ludicrous question. I cough loudly, pounding a fist against my chest while curious eyes pin me from every corner of the diner. I lift a hand in reassurance— I’m fine, not dying —and one by one, everyone returns to their meals.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Did you not see Isabel all over me last night?” I grunt, clearing my throat from the coffee going down the wrong pipe.

“Exactly. Isabel was all over you. Not the other way around. You weren’t into it. If you and T are hiding something, I’m offended. As your first best friend,” he emphasizes the word first like it’s the most important title in the world, “I deserve to know if something is going on between you two.”

He’s wrong. I was totally into it. I think.