She (11 page)

The syrup is a mess. A
hot
mess. What a good idea, Logan. Hours pass in this pleasurable state, before we take a much needed shower. The bed sheet is ruined, stained from the dark syrup, but I throw it in the washing machine anyway.
I love showering with Logan. Watching the water run down his skin, he looks beautiful. It seems inconceivable that less than a week ago I was in here, fantasising about having Logan’s hands on my body, and now he’s with me, and his hands travel everywhere. He makes love to me under the hot torrent of water. It’s heady and hard to breathe in the steam, but we crave each other too much to stop.
What a waste of water
, I think, smiling to myself. Our cries of ecstasy reverberate loudly in the tiled room. I realise quickly that nothing turns me on quite like hearing Logan groan in sexual satisfaction. Satisfaction caused solely by me. We spend only a fraction of our time in the shower actually washing.
Half an hour later we’re dressed for dinner and ready to leave. It’s dark outside, already. I don’t know how that happened. The last twenty-four hours are one big orgasmic blur. As we walk to the restaurant, I notice even the simple touch of Logan’s hand on mine sends shivers of amatory longing down my spine. He feels it too.
“We should have gotten takeaway,” he says.
“In case someone from work sees us and knows we’re not sick?” I ask, jokingly.
He smiles at me, and that familiar, insatiable desire pulls within me.
I sigh. “Yes, we should’ve gotten takeaway...eaten it in bed...”
“Or on the ottoman,” he grins cheekily.
“We’ll just have to eat really fast,” I say, and Logan laughs.
“That’s not really an option. Where we’re going has a set menu. Seven courses.”
“Seven?” I shriek.

“Yes,” he laughs again. “It’ll be a different kind of sensual experience,” he says, kissing my hand.
The building Logan leads me to is hugely tall and the restaurant sits right at the top. In the ground-floor foyer we are the only ones around, and I feel an instant charge ignite as we walk into the elevator alone. It’s a long way up to the top. It’s an enclosed space. Just Logan and I…
“I wonder if I can make you come before the elevator stops?” he says as the doors shut.
I shake my head at him. I know he could do it, but if he does I’ll want more. And more. And more. “Please stand in the corner and keep your hands to yourself.”
He grins and his eyes burn into mine. “No, Ma’am,” he says. And then he’s against me, his body crushing me against the wall, his mouth forcing mine open. I hurriedly wrap my arms around his neck, my hands grabbing at his hair, and I kiss him back. His hands don’t move south; they stay around my waist, respecting my wishes. I think the elevator stops a couple of times but I don’t know for sure. All I can compute is Logan; the feeling of his body pressed against mine, and his sweet, delicious kisses.
We’re brought back down to earth by someone coughing. We break apart to see that the doors are open, and the maitre d’ peers in at us with an amused expression on his face.
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur, bonsoir,” he says.
“Bonsoir,” we echo, stepping out of the lift.
The restaurant is incredible. Elegance is apparent everywhere I look, and though it’s full of well-dressed diners, it still feels airy and spacious. The whole floor is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, out of which the skyline of Paris is visible. The ambience is relaxed and romantic and added to by the atmospheric music, and the stunning view. Logan and I are led to our table next to a window, and I’m speechless as Logan holds out my chair for me. I stare excitedly at the Eiffel Tower lit up in the dark night, standing tall less than a kilometre away from us. Of course I’ve seen it before, but never like this! I’m being spoiled, I note happily.
The menu, as Logan told me, is already decided, so all that is required of me is to sit back and enjoy the splendour. When our food arrives we feed each other. It’s flirty, sexy, playful. After our third course, Logan’s phone rings. He frowns, like the last time his phone interrupted one of our moments.
“It’s Buddy,” he mutters.
The name means nothing to me, but unfazed by people around me answering their phones I prompt him it to take it.
“Hey...” His voice is the softest I’ve heard him use on the phone yet.
“Logi Bear, where the heck are you?” a big American voice booms.
I stifle a laugh.
Logi Bear
?
“You didn’t come into work today. Cheryl said you were sick, but you’re
never
sick. Not in fifteen years. And I just stopped by your apartment and no one answered…”
“I’m fine, Bud,” Logan puts him at ease. “I’m…with my girlfriend,” he tests out the word, smiling at me.
After a small silence, the man exclaims, “You’re playing
hooky
?”
Logan smirks. “That’s the short of it. I gotta go,” he presses. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
“Alright, Romeo,” Buddy teases, and they hang up.
“Sorry,” Logan mutters to me, turning his phone off altogether. “That was Buddy, he’s my best friend. American, contractor, sports fanatic,” he gives me the lowdown.
Their conversation leaves me with many questions. I ask the most obvious one first. “Logi Bear?” I laugh.
He laughs too , “Yeah…
shit
…you weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“I’ve a new name to call you in bed,” I tease.
“Please, no!” Logan laughs.
“How on earth did that come about?”
Our fourth course is delivered, and while we eat, Logan tells me, “So, basically, Buddy is the first American I met when I moved to Paris. I came across him in a dingy little sports bar in Montmartre.”
I smile. “That’s my favourite part of Paris.”
Logan nods. “Mine too. We shared a flat together there for a while, and we started a business together. About two years later, after we’d made a nice bit of money, we sold the company so we could both go and do our own thing. The Yogi Bear reference is from then, when we used to watch French reruns through the night. He was drunk and had an epiphany: he thought Yogi rhymed with Logan. He usually reserves the name for when he’s highly inebriated. Or worried, apparently,” he says, glancing at his phone. “Let us not talk about it again,” he pleads with an adorable, self-conscious smile.
I grin back at him, and nod my consent. “Why did you come to Paris?” I have a sudden urge to know. “I know you said it gave you hope, but after your parents kicked you out something else must’ve happened to set you on a new path.”

“Something did happen,” he admits. “Simply put, I found my passion.”

“For?”

“Buildings,” he says affectionately. “After they kicked me out, I hitchhiked from Charleston all the way to Chicago. And it was there, one night at about three AM, I found myself walking through the very centre of the city, staring up at these huge, magnificent, awe-inspiring skyscrapers. And granted, I
may
have been a little high, because they really,
really
impressed me…more than a building ever
should
impress a person, but,” he shrugs, ”something changed in me.”

“A spark?” I guess. I know the feeling; I’m a recent receiver of a life-altering change, and I’m sitting across from the cause.

Logan smiles, knowingly. “Exactly,” he says. “It was like flicking a switch. I stopped getting high, and I checked into a hotel to detox; and even though I felt like shit, I didn’t mind, and I didn’t find it as hard as I thought it would be, because I had this light at the end of the tunnel. All the effort and energy I put into destroying myself now had a new outlet. A few weeks later I flew to Paris.”

“Why not stay in the US?” I ask.

“Aside from the idealistic image I had of Paris, I was full of self-doubt because I had no education, qualifications, or any type of job experience whatsoever, and so I chose a different continent in case I failed. I figured that way my parents would have less chance of finding out.” He’s considerate for a moment, before revealing, “Somehow trying and failing seemed worse than not trying at all. I knew I only had one shot; and that was a scary thought. So when I got here I found a job, despite the money my parents gave me. Then I met Buddy and we started our company. I found that I had something in me, aside from my drive and passion, that enabled me to communicate well with people and secure us jobs, and better yet, deliver them successfully. That success made up for my lack of experience and education.” He smiles reminiscently as he says, “We put
everything
into that company; long hours, seven days a week, for two years straight.”

“Were you sad to sell it?” I wonder.

“No,” he says, his honesty apparent. “It was the right time. By then my self-confidence had grown so that I believed I could build something bigger and better.”

“Which you did,” I say proudly.

“It’s certainly bigger,” Logan says, adding humbly, “and I endeavour everyday to make it better.”

“You show a lot of dedication to all areas of your life,” I grin, euphemistically.

He chuckles seductively. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he tells me slowly.

His simple words flood my body with excitement. Abruptly I’m feeling flushed.

To avoid getting caught up in my own lustful thoughts, I continue the conversation. “So, uh, does Buddy still work in construction also?”
“Yes, but in a different sector now,” Logan says.
“Are you ever in competition for jobs?”
“Sometimes,” he nods, adding, “You know, you might have seen him at one of the AABD parties.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say.
“I’m sure you’ll meet him soon anyway.”

“It’s funny.”
“What is?” he asks.
“My best friend is also American. She’s called Amber; she’s a fiery red head.”
“An appropriate name.”
“Exactly,” I smile. “I met her just after I moved here, like you and Buddy. You’ve known him a long time then?” I surmise.
“Coming on fifteen years,” he says, his eyes warm and reminiscing. From this reaction alone I can tell that Buddy is a person of great meaning to him.
“Does he get to see your dimples?” I say, not realising how dirty it sounds until I’ve said it.
Logan laughs. “Um, I suppose he does, on occasion.”
“But not as much as me?”

He shakes his head. “He’s not as cute as you,” he says in way of explanation.
“You flatter me.”
“That’s the idea.”
I grin at him and ask another question brought on by their phone call. “You’ve never played hooky before?”
“This is a first for me,” he says, and I’m thrilled. “And you?”
“Also a first,” I tell him. “Though, I doubt it’ll be a last…”
He smiles and bites his bottom lip in that unconscious way he does. My train of thought derails, but Logan brings me swiftly back to the present.
Explaining his impeccable work ethic, he says, “I’ve always taken my work very seriously. Since moving here it’s always been number one. But,” he shrugs, “something happened. Two years ago I went to this party and I saw this girl, and… I don’t want to bore you with all the details,” he grins and shakes his head, “but the gist of it is that
everything
changed…”
I gaze at him lovingly, then abruptly rise from my seat and kiss him across the table. When we break apart he smiles at me, looking so happy, so sweet, so sexy, that I’m drawn to kiss him again. He smiles against my mouth, and I love it. I love that I can bring him the kind of joy that he’s radiating right now. I stand in this less than ladylike position for a few moments longer before taking my seat once more. I steal a quick glance around at the nearby tables and several people tut and look disapprovingly at me, but their scolding fails to have any impact. I’m on cloud nine.

Over the next two courses my mind is preoccupied by the thought of Logan two years ago, and the profundity of the experience he had when he saw me at the AABD party. I find myself feeling guilty for not having had the same reaction to him. To think that I spent my two years in a deadpan relationship, when I could have been with Logan the whole time, makes me feel foolish. Why, Gemima,
why
were you not ready for Logan then, I ask myself. Inwardly I question why Logan never approached me that night? Would it have changed anything? Or would my nonchalant, unconscious behaviour have turned him off of me forever? In which case I’m glad, I think, that events played out as they did.
The waiter places my seventh and final course in front of me. It’s a stunning looking dessert. But as I examine it I’m still thinking my guilty thoughts.
“Why are you frowning? Don’t you like chocolate?” Logan asks.
“No, it’s not that,” I say quickly, looking at him and turning my frown into a smile.
“Then, what?”
My American Mouth strikes again. “I feel bad about something.”
“What?” he asks, almost alarmed.
“That AABD party two years ago… I wish I’d seen you the way you saw me...”
He brows furrow slightly. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t wish that.”
“Why not?” I’m confused.

“Because… there’s no point,” he says. “We can’t change the past, and I don’t want you to feel bad about it. Please, don’t,” he requests quickly.
I shrug. “I feel guilty. You had this profound experience and I was too damned asleep! All this time you’ve been thinking of me, and… and it makes me feel bad.”
“Why does it matter if I’ve thought about you more than you’ve thought about me?”
“It’s not balanced,” I mutter.
“I didn’t realise you were so into parity in all things,” he chuckles.
“I’m not,” I grin at him.

“Well, then… Eat your dessert,” he instructs playfully.
Obediently, I take a bite. It’s heavenly. Logan watches me, a smile playing on the edges of his mouth; he knows there’s more I want to say.
Eventually, I blurt out, “I just think if I’d been more aware, then maybe… maybe we would’ve gotten together much sooner.”

Logan smiles. “While that thought is ten times more delicious than this tart, I must disagree.”
“Why?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.
“Because I’m pretty sure if we’d have gotten together two years ago, when I first fell in… fell for you,” he amends, and my eyes widen, “that I would’ve fucked it up.”
I splutter into my wine and Logan chuckles, jokingly throwing his serviette at me.
“Why?” I ask again, flushing in embarrassment.
He says but a word. “Impulse.” A moment later he adds, “Time helps me appreciate things. Time also gave me the opportunity to scheme how to break you and Jerry up,” he jokes.
I laugh, saying, “Oh, so you hired Mimi Pims to seduce him?” I play along.
He chuckles too, but he needs me to know, “No, not really. I would never do that to you.”
“I know,” I tell him.