Devoted to Drew. Loree Lough
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that would explain why.
“I’d like to leave a message in Jack White’s voice mail, please.”
The woman put him on hold, and while a familiar Eagles tune wafted into his ear, Logan said to Bianca, “You know that great little coffee shop around the corner? It’s never busy at this time of day, so—”
“This is Jack,” said the recording. “You know what to do.”
“Hey, Jack. It’s Logan. Can’t stop by today after all, so don’t count on me to fill air time between Twinkies commercials.” Laughing, he added, “See you at the meeting tonight.”
He hung up, took a breath, then told Bianca, “My sister’s son, Sam, is autistic, and he has a birthday coming up.” He swallowed, nervous at sharing this personal information. “I thought maybe you could suggest a toy or a book or something that he’d enjoy.”
Logan could almost read her mind, thinking, “Why not ask his mother?”
“And while you’re at it,” he tacked on, “maybe you can offer a different viewpoint on this idea I have of building a school for kids like Sam. And Drew.” He paused long enough to add, “If you’re not free, I can wait. Or come back in an hour or two. If you have things to wrap up, that is.”
Did his rambling make him sound like an idiot to her, too?
She pointed at her desk. “As a matter of fact, I do have a lot to do before I pick up Drew.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Maybe some other time, then.”
Silence.
Too truthful to schedule a rain date she wouldn’t keep? He might have admired her honesty...if it hadn’t made him feel like a babbling buffoon. Much as he hated to admit it, Bianca hadn’t given him any reason to think her invitation to grab a cup of coffee from the production office had been anything but. He tried to cover his discomfort by stepping into the hall and looking both ways.
“This place is like a maze. Which way to the lobby again?”
“Are you parked out back or in the garage across the street?”
“Out back.”
“Then you don’t need to go all the way back to the lobby.” She faced the computer. “Turn right and follow the hall to the end,” she said, typing, typing, typing. “The double doors will lead you to the rear lot.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the coffee, too. It really was as good as Starbucks.”
The keys click-clacked as she said, “Glad you liked it. Drive safely now.”
Logan left Bianca to her work, exited the building and got into his car. He’d already acknowledged her intelligence, but based on the smooth, thoughtful way she’d dismissed him, he had to admit that he’d seriously underestimated her people skills.
Movement to the left caught his attention, and as the driver of an SUV backed out of the space beside his, he was reminded of that day, ten years earlier, when he’d heard the words that changed his life.
His mouth went dry, thinking of the way he’d handled the bad news. How almost four years had gone by before he’d quit treating it with booze. The all too familiar itch started in the back of his throat and his mouth went dry. Logan swallowed. Hard. In the past he would have scratched it with scotch, but AA—and his sponsor—had taught him how to divert the cravings. Logan made a mental note to tell Jack about it at tonight’s meeting. Confessing these weak moments had kept him sober for six years, two weeks and five days.
He jammed the key into the ignition and decided to stop by his folks’ house on the way home, see how his sister, Sandra, was holding up in taking care of their mom.
The engine emitted a guttural groan that echoed his mood. “Great,” he muttered as a series of clicks punctuated the groan, “that’s just great.” Last thing he needed was a dead battery.
Logan grabbed his phone to call a tow truck.
Nothing. No ring tone. No bars. What were the odds of one guy having two dead batteries in the space of a minute? Slim to none, he thought, slamming the driver’s door.
He could follow the sidewalk around to the front of the building and ask to use the phone in the studio’s waiting room. Or he could go into the station the way he’d come out and borrow Bianca’s instead.
CHAPTER THREE
RESEARCHING THE GUESTS’ business and professional backgrounds was part of her job as assistant producer. Digging into their personal lives was not. Mild curiosity had prompted her to find out for herself if the media’s assessment of Logan Murray was fact or fiction. She hadn’t been surprised at—and quickly dismissed—the juicy tidbits about his romantic escapades. For one thing, her college minor had been PR. For another, common sense told her that if he’d dated as much as the entertainment mags claimed, he’d need forty-eight hours in every day.
Something about his message for the radio DJ echoed in her memory. “See you tonight at the meeting,” he’d said. She thumbed through his file, looking for articles that might validate her suspicions. When nothing turned up, she ran a Google search.
Nothing.
Bianca sighed, staring at the list of links. Page after page of photos, bios and academic and athletic awards, but not a word about alcoholism, drug addiction or rehab. If only she could find the article she’d read, months ago, about the time he’d spent in rehab. Well, she thought, they didn’t call it Alcoholics Anonymous for nothing.
Or she’d been dead wrong about him.
But why was it so important to find black-and-white evidence that he had skeletons in his closet? Because she needed reasons not to like him. Yeah, he’d said yes to her coffee offer, and yes, he’d invited her to talk autism at the café around the corner. That didn’t mean he was interested in her. His file was filled with full-color photographic evidence that he liked his women footloose and flashy, not exhausted and widowed. She tossed the file aside and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrorlike window of the microwave. “You look old enough to be your own mother,” she muttered, frowning.
“Talking to yourself again, eh?”
Bianca clapped a hand over her chest. “Good grief, Marty. You scared me half to death!”
“Sorry,” he said. “I whistled all the way down the hall so I wouldn’t startle you.” Then he nodded at Drew’s photograph. “How does he like the new school?”
“He’s holding his own, I suppose.”
“What’s that mean...you suppose?”
“Well, he’s talking a whole lot more and making eye contact most of the time. Best of all, he lets me hug him, and once in a while, he even hugs me back.” Bianca thought of all the years when Drew had turned his face and stiffened when she showed affection in any way. She held her breath to forestall tears. “I just...hoped he’d be further along by now.”
He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I don’t need to remind you, of all people, that these things take time, do I?”
She returned his smile. “No, guess not. And I don’t need to tell you that I’m not exactly the most patient mom on the planet, do I?”
“No, guess not,” Marty echoed.
“So what brings you all the way down the hall to my minuscule cubicle?”
“Would you believe I misplaced Logan Murray’s contact info? I forgot to thank him for inviting me to that golf outing last week.”
Bianca reopened the file, grabbed a Post-it and wrote Logan’s name and phone number on it.
Marty folded it in two and tucked it into the pocket of his crisp white shirt. “Want me to tell him anything for you?”
“Such