Page 48 of The Player Next Door
He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes dark and hooded. “Things I never knew I wanted.”
“Quiche is ready!” Burt called from downstairs, but they stayed looking at each other for another few seconds.
Clare got herself together first and stood. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. “Your dad’s waiting.”
And to her everlasting surprise and delight, he took her hand as she led him back downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-four
Logan was surprised by how easy lunch was. He had warned Clare his dad liked to talk about World War Two, and while it turned out she unsurprisingly knew nothing about the strategies employed at the Battle of Midway, she did know an awful lot about how to make various things explode, a fact that utterly delighted Burt. Logan ate his dad’s spinach and mushroom quiche and watched them talk, somehow both relaxed and terrified out of his wits.
Logan was in so far over his head. Getting Clare to date him was just supposed to solve a work mess he’d gotten himself into, but now she was shaking him in ways he didn’t think possible. Like with most things Logan did, he hadn’t given much thought to inviting Clare to meet his dad. He had been honest in the car when he said it was because he wanted her to see him, but now shesawhim, and he wasn’t entirely sure he could handle it. He wasn’t thinking straight and what’s worse, the longer he looked at her, the less he was thinking at all.
Because Clare really did see him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t open with Sam, but there was always an edge of cynicism to their interactions. Sam got along well with Burt, but she didn’t seem to thoroughly enjoy herself the way Clare was right now, as she was explaining in depth how she had once learned how to handle a crossbow.
And Sam had never once put together that he refused to share his art because of his mom. Hell, he had never really put it together; he just knew it was something private, something connected to her.
And now he was stuck with the irrevocable knowledge that he cared about Clare more than he had ever cared about anyone, and it was a supremely stupid choice on his part because he couldn’t tell if she felt the same way. She might care about him, but it wasn’t the same. He knew it in his bones. There was no way someone like her would feel the same way about someone like him, and he was just going to have to figure out a way to deal with that. He tried to tell himself that as long as she agreed to the dinner with Schneider he could handle her walking away—because at least then he would still have his job—but it was a thin, flimsy lie.
Burt scraped his plate clean and slapped his hand lightly on the table. “Looks like the rain’s stopped,” he observed, and sure enough, the sun was out again, setting everything shimmering. “Would you kids want to let the chickens back out?”
If Logan thought Clare would object to being put to work, he would’ve been wrong.
“Chickens?” Clare said brightly. “You have chickens? Like, real live ones?”
“Where do you think the eggs come from?” Burt grinned.
Out in the back yard, Logan unhooked the door to the chicken coop and let the girls come clattering out with their hurried, awkward gait. Clare had an enormous grin on her face, like this was the best thing she had ever seen. “You didn’t tell me your dad was a farmer,” she chided, crouching down and then springing back when one of the chickensbawkedloudly.
Logan nudged the offending chicken away from her with his foot. “He’s not. His parents were, but he got a job at a hardware store instead. He just keeps some chickens, and every few years he goes through a bee phase and gets a hive or two.”
“This is amazing; I’mfuriousyou didn’t tell me this,” Clare said. “What happens when the chickens are too old for laying?”
“Well, for most people, that’s what we’d call dinner. But Dad’s a softie, so they just slide into a happy retirement here.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t have a dog.”
“A dog would scare the chickens,” Logan shrugged.
Clare surveyed the expansive lawn and started trudging through the wet grass toward his old swing set. The hems of her jeans were soaked by the time she reached it, and clouds were once again rolling in and blotting out the sun. The light was weak, but it turned the grass a brilliant emerald green, and Logan hung back a little, watching the way her hips swayed as she walked, her red and white gingham shirt standing out against the lawn.
She sat down on one of the swings, heedless of the water that was beading up on the seat, and started swinging. He sat down on the swing next to her, wiping his palms against his jeans when the metal chain proved to be soaked. He pushed himself back and forth with his toes and Clare slowed to a stop. “This must have been yours,” she said, and then laughed. “What am I saying? Of course it was yours.”
He nodded to the small metal slide that stuck off to the side. A fat drop of rain landed on his wrist but he ignored it. “Broke my arm on that when I was nine. I was playing Superman and got a little cocky. Jumped off. It turned out I couldn’t fly.”
Clare snorted. “That’s much cuter than my broken-bone story, which is I broke my foot when I was twenty and completely wasted in college. I was running to catch up to Devi and tripped on a curb.”
Logan winced. “I thought you were a nerd who didn’t drink?”
“I was a nerd who didn’t drink inhigh schoolbecause I wasn’t cool enough. Even nerds drink in college, Logan.”
She held her hand out and wrinkled her nose. A couple more drops of rain landed on her palm, although the light remained that impossibly clear, sharp contrast that could only happen before a summer storm. “Looks like it’s starting to rain again.”
“Did you want to go inside?”
She shrugged. “It’s just water. And the thunder and lightning have moved on. We can go inside in a bit.”
He smiled softly and stood, moving around the swings to stand behind her. He gave her a gentle push and she giggled. A few more raindrops pelted his head. “I feel like you’re exaggerating how nerdy you were,” he said.