Wild (The Ivy Chronicles #3)(24)

Logan’s face flashed across my mind for some reason. I didn’t know why. He and I weren’t dating. And despite his age, I wouldn’t call him immature.

“So how does the Java Hut sound?” Connor asked, tugging my attention back and motioning in the direction we needed to turn.

“Sure.” I smiled. “That sounds great.” And I almost meant it.

WHEN LOGAN SHOWED UP on my doorstep again late the next night, it almost felt natural. Well. If not for the crazy way my heart thumped at the sight of him.

His mouth kicked up at the corner. He dragged a hand through his short hair, his eyes tired. “Long night?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He blew out a breath and plucked at the ripped sleeve of his shirt. “Only had to break up one fight. It was between a group of girls. I’ll take a brawl between guys any day.”

I laughed.

“Mind if I crash here tonight again?”

“Sure. It’s okay.” My voice even passed for normal as I uttered this.

He followed me upstairs and I waved him to the table where I was working.

“You’re a night owl,” he observed, eyeing my laptop. “Are you studying right now? I can go if I’m bothering—”

“No. Stay.” God. Did my voice crack a little just then? I swallowed and tried again, deliberately neglecting to mention that I had stayed up late tonight thinking—fine, hoping—he might make another appearance. “I’m not studying for summer school or anything.” I sank back down into my chair, tucking a long strand of hair behind my ear self-consciously, and pulling a knee up to my chest. “I’m working for a professor this summer. Doing research for him.”

He plopped down at the table across from me. “That’s pretty cool.”

I nodded, feeling lame and awkward all at once. “Would you like a drink?”

“Sure.”

I got up and grabbed him a can of soda from the refrigerator, feeling his eyes on my back.

“So what are you studying? For your degree?” he asked as I returned to my chair. It was a polite question—that thing people asked automatically without really caring, but he stared at me with interest.

“Business.”

“And is that what you always wanted to do?”

“Major in business?” I shrugged, thinking about it. Did anyone ever grow up saying they wanted to major in business? It wasn’t like your typical fireman-ballerina-astronaut dream. “I guess.” It had seemed like a sensible plan. The only thing I had ever really had a passion for was music, and if I had pursued that it would have been a knife in my mother’s back. “It just seemed like a smart choice. My parents liked the idea.”

He studied me carefully. “Your parents’ approval is that important to you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah. Sure. You don’t think it should matter?” And then I felt like an ass. His mother was dead. His father didn’t give a damn about him. Parental approval wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

He looked away, staring across the room at nothing in particular. “I guess if I had the kind of upbringing you did, good parents, picket fence, and all that stuff, it would matter to me, too . . .” A decided but hung on the air.

I nudged him. “And?”

He lifted his gaze back to mine. “There comes a time when you’ve got to do what’s right for you . . . what makes you happy.” His gaze held mine, the blue of his eyes so direct that it cut through everything. I realized then that Logan would always follow his own path. Even if he had grown up with that picket fence, he was that kind of person. Confident and self-assured enough to do what he wanted to do and not give in to the expectations of others.

“What about you? What do you want to major in? Or do you only live and breathe baseball?”

He looked back at me, studying me over the laptop, and shook his head. “I do love the game. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a rhythm in it. A peace that comes over me when I’m standing on the mound.” He took a long sip from his drink. I watched his throat work, mesmerized. “It doesn’t matter if the ballpark is full of screaming fans or smack-talkers shouting at me from every direction. It’s like I’m on a boat drifting at sea, totally calm, the world fading around me. Nothing hurried. Just the sound of my breath, the pulse of my heart, the ball in my hand. Have you ever felt like that?”

I took a breath, realizing I’d been in some kind of trance, my memory searching for a moment like that. His description had triggered that need in me. I’d never met a guy who talked like him. With mere words he fired a need in me to know that kind of peace.

“Yeah,” I admitted slowly. “I have.” When I held my guitar, I felt that way. Or rather, I had.

When it became clear I wasn’t going to elaborate, he continued, “If I’m lucky enough to make it to the majors, then great. But I have other interests, too . . . other things that bring that same feeling.”

And this struck me as wholly unfair. My fingers tightened around the curve of my knee. I looked away for a moment and bit the inside of my cheek, disturbed by this. Nothing inspired me the way he described except for something I couldn’t do, and he had multiple things that spoke to him?

“I’m actually interested in teaching.”