“Art was always my thing, even as a child, as far back as I can remember,” I start off quietly, my gaze lingering on Logan’s rumpled brown hair. His shoulders slowly lift and drop with his even breaths.

Silence. Then, “Yeah?” He speaks but doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” I reply and keep going while I have the guts to do it now. “It’s difficult for me to share or show my feelings. It was the same when I was a kid. I always drew, pencil to paper, and later discovered painting. Art was the only way I could express my emotions. I could create something beautiful without the risk of getting hurt.” I laugh at the thought. “I know it may sound stupid.”

Logan shifts, rolling over to the left side of his body so he’s facing me now. He stares at me, his head gently resting against the pillow. Not a trace of humor can be found on his face. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all,” he says.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrug. “The more I relied on my drawings or paintings as a way to cope with all my bottled-up emotions, the worse I got. It triggered something else, and I withdrew even more into myself. It got so bad that the one thing I was truly passionate about slowly became an enemy.

“My heart gradually shut out all those who cared for me, making me numb. Painting became the only way I could effectively communicate. I poured all of my frustration into my paintings, so much so that when I got overwhelmed to the point of a breakdown, I exploded. One huge destruction. I couldn’t paint fast enough to handle everything, and I couldn’t handle painting or drawing without crying, without falling apart. It hurt too much. Once it came to that, I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. So I shoved most of my paintings and all my art supplies into a large cardboard box, metaphorically storing away all my emotions. I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I just stopped.”

“How long has it been since you last painted?”

I try to think back on it. “A little over nine months. My last painting was a month after Brooke died. I never finished it. It’s the only painting I’ve never finished.”

His eyes glisten as if a memory just sparked. “That one painting in your shed, when I walked in and asked for the measuring tape… That was the one, wasn’t it?” he asks.

I nod. “That was the first time since I stored all my paintings away that I looked at all of them. My psychiatrist thought I was ready to start again, but I didn’t feel ready yet. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

So many questions linger in his stare, but he doesn’t ask. Instead he makes a statement. “You’re so talented, you can’t let that go to waste.”

“Do you like to build?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers, a bit thrown off by the question.

“Why?”

“Just…because I do.” He shrugs.

“No. There’s a reason why.”

He thinks for a moment. “Because knowing I took part in creating something that others can enjoy is rewarding somehow.”

“Exactly. That’s how I felt for a very long time, fulfilled at the end of each piece I’d created. But then it turned into something else. Something darker. I was no longer fulfilled; I was angry at everything and everyone. My anger slowly turned into something more and then, before I knew it, creating art wasn’t fun anymore. Every time I tried, it triggered something else.” I shut my mouth and then open it to tell him. Tell him what it triggered. Tell him about my disorder. Tell him who I truly am.

Then Logan scoots in closer, reaching his hand over my waist and bringing me into him. We’re both in the middle of my mattress. My hand easily lands on his chest, and his rises to rest on the base of my neck. “You will create art again and when you do, you’ll have that feeling back at the end of each piece. Because I believe in you and your work and the person you are.”

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle it,” I confess, and I truly don’t think I am.

He brings his head to mine. His lips touch the tip of my nose, my forehead, and finally my chin. Our little thing. Ever since the first time he’s done it, he’s never stopped, and I will never let him. I’d rather have a thousand little Logan kisses like those than no kiss at all, because when his lips lightly caress my skin, he’s mine and I’m his.

He rests his forehead against mine. “You’re stronger than you think, Jersey Girl.”

“I hope so,” I whisper.

* * *

I wake up to the smell of buttery pancakes and bacon. Logan steps forward at my bedside, a plate in one hand and a glass of OJ in the other. He rests the glass on my nightstand. His smile is contagious, forcing me to smile back as I sit up.

“Good mornin’, Jersey Girl. You slept like a baby.”

“That’s the first time in a long time I’ve slept like that in my own room.”

He smiles, handing me a plate. “Breakfast in bed,” he announces proudly.

I grab the plate, placing it on my lap. Two pancakes, three strips of bacon, and scrambled eggs. “You actually cooked?” I ask in disbelief.

“Yeah. Unlike at my place, your folks actually had something in the fridge.” He sits on the edge of the bed beside me, studying my features.

“Thank you. Um, I usually don’t eat breakfast, though.”

Logan lifts his leg up on the bed and twirls his body so he’s face-to-face with me. “How ’bout this—if you eat up, I’ll give you a hint about a little surprise I have in store for today.”

“Surprise?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of surprise?” I ask.

His lips curl up into a grin. “Eat up.” I stab my fork into the fluffy cake and take a bite. “There you go, Jersey Girl. Let’s get some meat on those bones.”

“What?” I mumble through my mouthful. “I’m not skinny.”

He chuckles. “Eat up, will ya?”

I quickly scarf the rest of it down until my belly’s aching and on the verge of exploding from being full. But it was worth every bite to see the satisfied look on Logan’s face as I took my last swallow. That’s the best breakfast I’ve had in a really long time.

* * *

“This is not fair! You made me eat all that breakfast and you haven’t given me one hint!”

We’ve been driving for almost two hours now. First, Logan had to stop by his apartment to grab a few things. He asked me to wait in the car, which I did. When he came back out, he held a black book bag over his right shoulder. When he entered the truck and I asked what was in the bag, he tossed it in the backseat and told me it was none of my business.

“I gave you a tiny hint already,” he says.

“Telling me to bring a change of clothes and dress comfortably with sneaks is definitely not a hint.”

“We’re heading toward the lake house.”

“Is that the big surprise? The lake house?”

He laughs at my unenthusiastic tone. “No. We’ll be there tonight to hang out. Bryson, Santino, and a handful of people will be there. It won’t be packed since everyone is with their families for barbeques and fireworks and crap like that.”

“Why aren’t you and Bryson with your family for the Fourth of July?”

“Because my mother hasn’t celebrated the last two years; it’s too close to Sean’s birthday. Uncle George usually hangs out with his buddies. It’s not really a big holiday for us.”

“Oh.”

“But I can tell you where I’m taking you is nearby the lake house.” He steers the wheel as he turns his head to take a quick peek my way. His smile brightens. “Oh, come on, Jersey.”

“Come on what?” I ask innocently.

“What’s that face for? I expect you to be enthused by the mystery of this adventure.”

“Honestly? The lake house isn’t a huge surprise. I wouldn’t have scarfed down my breakfast for—”

“Oh, have a little faith.” Logan shakes his head at me in mock disappointment. “I only said it was by the lake house. It could be the most epic surprise of your life for all you know.” I cock my head to study him. He catches me staring and smiles.

“Okay. Fine,” I relent. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. This could be the best surprise ever!” I joke, slamming my hand to my chest and batting my eyelashes at him.

“See? Now you’re getting it, Jersey.”

* * *

Logan parks his truck in a large dirt-filled parking lot surrounded by tall trees. There’s a handful of cars spread out in the lot. I unclick my safety belt but stay inside, scooting toward the dashboard and crooking my neck to get a better look.

We’re parked at the base of a trail into the woods, but these woods aren’t like the ones by the lake house. Those are open and airy and you can see at least a mile. These woods, even though it’s sunny and bright out, feel dark, secretive. Hundreds of tree trunks hide what’s beyond.

Run.

Sweat coats my skin, trailing behind a sheet of goose bumps. My fingers grip the edge of the seat as I stare ahead. I stare and stare, waiting for him to jump out—the person watching me. I can’t see him, but I can feel his eyes penetrating through the trees, across miles of wildlife, through the windshield, and straight into me. He’s waiting for me to step out of the truck.

Run.

“All right, Jersey let’s do this—”

Logan stops midsentence. Shuddering, I slowly turn my head to him. He’s beside me with the door wide open. His eyes cautiously take in the fear in mine. “Are you all right?” he asks.

I’m not. Everything in my stomach is churning, my mind is racing, and my heart stammers in my chest. I’m not all right. I’m scared and though I don’t know the man that I’m afraid of, I can’t help that I am. I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

Logan’s hand finds its way to my cheek. The warmth from the contact instantly soothes me. I lean my face into him, wishing I could shrink and curl into a tiny ball and live in the safe haven that is Logan Reed’s palm for the rest of my life.