Crazy Little Thing Called Love Read online

  Logan choked back a cough. “To be honest, sir, I’d like to date your daughter.”

  Vanessa forced herself to stand still, staring at the potted plant her mother had hung in the corner of the porch, its long green vines trailing over the sides of the planter.

  “I see.” Her father seemed to notice her for the first time. “Vanessa, why don’t you go get this young man some iced tea. I’ll take a glass, too. We’ll sit out here and talk.”

  “Sure thing, Dad. But I think Logan has to get to work soon.”

  “Is that true, Logan? Don’t want to make you late.”

  “I’ve got about half an hour, sir.”

  “Fine.” Her father settled into one of the Jefferson woven-back rocking chairs, motioning for Logan to sit beside him. “This won’t take long. Vanessa? Weren’t you going to get the drinks?”

  “Yessir.”

  Vanessa slipped inside the house, aware that her father had begun questioning Logan about school and work—even what he hoped to do after graduation. As she shut the door to keep the heat outside, Logan looked up from where he sat in the other rocking chair and gave her a quick wink when her dad wasn’t looking.

  • • •

  Seeing Vanessa at the top of the stairs made running the virtual gauntlet with her parents—her father a few days ago and her mother tonight—all worth it. She wore a pair of jeans that hugged her long legs and a sleeveless cotton top the soft yellow color of sea oats. Her brown hair, illuminated with blond highlights, skimmed her shoulders, pulled off her forehead with a barrette. When she offered him a smile, he couldn’t help but wonder if Vanessa Hollister believed in kissing a guy good night on the first date.

  “So, what are you two doing tonight, Logan?”

  Mrs. Hollister’s question caused heat to streak up his neck.

  “Um . . . I thought I’d take Vanessa to the Crab Trap, one of my favorite restaurants in Fort Walton Beach, and then maybe go see a movie, if she’s interested.”

  Rylan, her younger brother, sidled up beside Logan. “Did you ride your motorcycle?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “If it’s okay with your mom.”

  Mrs. Hollister hesitated, but gave in when Rylan said, “Please, Mom? Just for a minute?”

  Before leading her brother outside, Logan acknowledged Vanessa waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Is it okay if I show your brother my bike real quick?”

  “Sure. I don’t mind.”

  Vanessa followed them outside, humoring her little brother’s interruption.

  “Can I sit on it?” Rylan circled the motorcycle, eyes wide.

  “Sure.” Logan paused. “I mean, if your parents say it’s okay. I could even give you a short ride—”

  “Really? That would be so cool! Could we, Vanessa?”

  Her laughter filled the air with a light bit of music. “Let me go ask Dad. You know Mom’s gonna say no.”

  Within minutes, Rylan was seated behind him, the helmet cinched tight beneath his chin, his arms locked tight around Logan’s waist. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hollister stood on the porch. Vanessa stepped close, speaking to her little brother.

  “Remember what Dad said, Rylan. Logan’s staying on this street—just up and down one time. Okay? And he’s not going fast. Got it?”

  Looking over his shoulder, Logan chuckled when Vanessa tapped the top of the helmet Rylan was wearing, imitating Logan’s one-two action.

  “All set?”

  Rylan nodded and Vanessa moved away, brushing her hand across his shoulders, causing a warmth to settle in his chest. He understood the “first this, then us” message.

  Once they were finally out to dinner and on their own, Logan realized there were all sorts of reasons he liked being on a date with Vanessa. It was fun to learn she dipped her french fries in ranch dressing and ketchup. To watch her drink Coke flavored with a squeeze of fresh lemon for the first time and decide that maybe, just maybe, she might try it again. To convince her to try fried calamari.

  But the best part of being on a real date with Vanessa Hollister was having time with her—more than the thirty minutes that ticked away too quickly when he took her home after school. He could watch her face as they talked. See how her brown eyes lit up when she reminisced about how she had been on swim team since she was five years old—and loved to swim backstroke. Hear how her laughter had music hidden in it.

  He talked about his grandparents, about going to the beach and watching lightning storms, and how he was saving to buy a bigger motorcycle. She even agreed with his suggestion to skip the movie and go for a walk along the beach instead.

  Logan pulled the motorcycle into the beachfront parking lot. Cut the engine, set the kickstand, bracing the bike while Vanessa clambered off the back. By the time he turned to face her, she’d removed her helmet and was running her fingers through her hair to untangle it.

  “You sure you don’t want to go see the movie?” He reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, the strands silky against his fingertips.

  “Absolutely. A walk along the beach sounds like fun.”

  Logan locked their helmets onto the bike, and then he clasped her hand and guided her onto the wooden walkway leading to the sand.

  “This is one of my favorite places to come to.” He twined his fingers through hers, tugging her closer. “Sometimes I even get up early and ride out here before school starts.”

  “You’re kidding! That early?”

  “Yeah. If I . . . have something on my mind, I come here to think.” He hesitated to say and pray. They hadn’t talked about God yet. He stopped, sitting down at a small sand dune, and unlaced his boots, tugging them off and then taking off his socks and tucking them inside. “Let me help you.”

  He knelt in front of Vanessa, pulling off her dark brown boots, setting them side by side. “Cowboy boots, huh? These new?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  There was something soft, hesitant in her reply. “Good protection, since you’re riding on the motorcycle with me.”

  He caught the sound of her soft exhale, saw her shoulders relax as she tugged off her socks. “Yeah . . . that’s what I thought, too.”

  “Ready to walk?” He stood, offering his hand.

  “Yes.”

  Their hands intertwined again. Easy. Silence fell between them. There were a million more things he wanted to tell her. To ask her. But for now it was good just to walk, to watch the waters of the Gulf darken as the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky changing from pinks to purples to the grays and blacks of a charcoal sketch.

  “You live here all your life?”

  Her question invaded the quietness.

  “Yep. I’m a Niceville native.”

  “Ever thought of going anywhere else?”

  “Sure, I have. But I wasn’t in any rush—I figure that’s what college is for. In a few months I’ll be packing up my bedroom and living in a dorm somewhere.”

  “Have you applied to a lot of schools?”

  “Well, I applied to Florida State, which is where I’ll go, most likely. And a couple of out-of-state schools—but my dad says why pay out-of-state tuition when there are perfectly good colleges in Florida?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer so she rested against his side. Inhaled the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the salty air.

  “Do you know what you want to study?”

  “Weather.”

  “Weather? Like to be a weatherman?”

  “Nah. I don’t want to sit in a TV station and point at a green screen and tell people to carry an umbrella. I want to . . . I dunno. Report on storms. Or work for National Geographic. Something exciting.”

  He’d never spoken his dream out loud to anyone else . . . well, not since he’d tried to and his father had shut him down.

  “That’s a pretty unusual dream, Logan.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I lived through a tornado that hit my grandparents’ fa
rm in Nebraska.” He paused as the all-too-familiar threat of tears built behind his eyes.

  “Oh, my gosh! I can’t even imagine—”

  “It was . . . awful. My grandmother was coming back from town when it hit. And she—she was killed.”

  “Oh, Logan.” Vanessa stopped walking, turning to face him. The wind tossed her hair across her face. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Thanks.” Logan had to look away, out at the endless expanse of water, if he wanted to hold back the tears. “My grandfather got my sister and me to the storm shelter. I didn’t want to come inside. I mean, it was pretty scary . . . but exciting, too, ya know?”

  Vanessa stood beside him, leaning to rest her head on his shoulder. Listening.

  “And then when we found out about my grandmother—we called her Mom Mom—well, it just about broke my grandfather’s heart. Tornadoes fascinated me . . . but I hated ’em, too. I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about them ever since then.”

  “Because of what happened.”

  “Yes. And when I’m here, sometimes when there’s a hurricane out there, miles offshore—it whips up the waves. The wildness of it reminds me of a tornado. I love to come down and surf then.”

  “You’re kidding. Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Sure—but that makes it more fun.” He risked a glance at Vanessa. Would she think he was crazy? Stupid? But something akin to admiration glinted in her eyes. “Do you know how to surf?”

  “No. I’m a swimmer—but no, I don’t know how to surf.”

  “I could teach you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “What about you? Are you planning on going to college?”

  “That’s always been the plan.” Vanessa shrugged. “The expectation, I guess.”

  “So why didn’t you join the Niceville swim team?”

  Her sigh mingled with the soft whisper of the waves. “I didn’t want to join a new team again. I’ve done it too many times.”

  “So what about college? What do you want to study?”

  “Kinesiology, maybe? Or sports medicine.” A brief note of her laugh sounded between them. “I’ve heard most college freshmen change their majors, anyway, so I’m keeping my options open.”

  “So you’re beautiful and smart, huh?” Another breeze caused strands of Vanessa’s hair to tangle in front of her face, and Logan brushed them back with his fingers. Traced the outline of her jaw before he dipped his head and kissed her.

  The faint taste of salt tinged their lips, and he forgot all about being careful, taking it slow. He pulled her to him, pressing his body against hers, even as her arms wrapped around his waist and then slipped up over his back, pulling him closer. Vanessa seemed as ready for the kiss as he was, and only when the cool, wet surf splashed against their ankles did he pull away from her, resting his forehead against hers.

  “So, homecoming’s in October.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice softened.

  “Would you go with me?”

  “Yes.” She finally looked up at him, a smile parting her lips. “I’d love that.”

  “I’ll get my dad’s car—no riding the motorcycle that night.”

  The wind caught their laughter, tossed it out onto the water, bringing it back to them again like a virtual wave that wrapped around his heart.

  Oh, how he liked being with Vanessa Hollister.

  TEN

  There’s no security on this earth, only opportunity.

  —DOUGLAS MACARTHUR (1880–1964), FORMER AMERICAN FIVE-STAR GENERAL

  One word described the college athletic arena: chaos.

  Logan would like to be generous and say “controlled chaos,” but at first glance he couldn’t figure out who, if anyone, was in charge. The parking lot was a treacherous moving maze, requiring him to navigate through cars parked in clearly marked spaces—and anywhere else people decided would work.

  “This is more dangerous than chasing a tornado.” Max’s joke caused Brady and Julie to laugh, but Logan found no humor in it.

  “I’ll get as close as I can to the gym entrance, Max—then Julie and Brady can help you get into the building. I’ll haul the stuff in.”

  Brady already had his seat belt unbuckled. “I can take some of the stuff, too, boss.”

  “Max is the priority—”

  “I can walk. I’m slow, but I can walk.” Logan stiffened as Max clasped his shoulder. “Stop doing penance for what happened last July. I didn’t die. My leg is healing. Yeah, I may end up with a limp. But Julie tells me the ladies think that makes a guy mysterious.”

  Brady shook his head, motioning to the backseat. “And we know this guy needs all the help he can get with the ladies.”

  Even in the middle of a hurricane, his team kept joking. They always did.

  “Enough already. Get out of my car, will you?” Logan swiped the back of his hand against his forehead, making eye contact with Max in the rearview mirror. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. We good?”

  “Sure. We’re good.”

  Brady hauled a couple of their suitcases from the trunk and then banged on the hood of the car as he passed by, signaling Logan to go in search of one of the quickly disappearing parking spaces.

  Once outside the car, Logan braced his legs against the hurricane’s assault. He grabbed the remaining suitcases. Julie had carried in the sleeping bags—something he’d resisted buying at first but then decided was a smart idea. After they used them, they could donate them to the Red Cross—which was probably running the shelter. And with Hurricane Cressida barreling in at up to 129 miles per hour, who knew how long they’d be roughing it? The arena might be fairly new, built in 2008, according to one of the reporters providing “color” stories with interesting details and facts about the area and other past hurricanes, but sleeping on a gym floor was still sleeping on a floor.

  He passed other evacuees, just as soaked as he was, trudging to the arena. Parents herding their children—some carrying babies, some pushing strollers containing both children and grocery bags filled with food, as well as diaper bags. Children carried their own little backpacks, most hugging a stuffed animal or toy or carrying a book. Some people carried metal lawn chairs while others lugged camp cots. Even more surprising, some families had made a fast-food run on their way to the shelter and hefted bags of burgers and fries or chicken and super-sized sodas.

  “Everyone prepares for a hurricane in their own way.” Logan muttered the words to himself as he scanned the crowd inside the gym. Where had his team staked a claim?

  No . . . no . . . no . . . there! To his immediate right, setting up at the base of one of the sections of fixed red stadium seats, Julie and Brady spread out a blanket and arranged two of the suitcases on one end while Max leaned against the retaining wall.

  “I see the accommodations aren’t quite ready.” Logan added his suitcase to the line. “Should I call the front desk and complain?”

  Julie, always cheerful and ready for a laugh, picked up on his banter. “If you can find anything that remotely resembles a front desk, I will turn down your bed for you tonight and put chocolate on your pillow.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see if I can find out who’s in charge.”

  “Don’t know if you got the lowdown from the Red Cross rep when you came in, but we all need to check in. Name, address, that sort of thing.” Max pointed out where the organization had set up a check-in point. “They like to know who’s staying in their shelter.”

  “Got it. I don’t suppose we can give you all of our driver’s licenses and let you handle that?”

  “Worth a try.”

  “Good.” Logan ran his hand through his wet hair. “I just realized I forgot the bags with the flashlights and batteries and radio we purchased on the way in. I’m gonna make a run for the car again.”

  “Going back out in the storm can’t be any more dangerous than going into the store and trying to buy those supplies.” Brady saluted him. “See you soon, boss
.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  As he made his way through the ever-growing crowd back to the exit, two women stumbled in just ahead of a family. One clung to the arm of the other, bent over, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed rain hat. Logan stepped over and put his hand out, steadying the women.

  “Thank you . . .” As the taller woman spoke, she looked up, her words fading.

  Vanessa.

  The thought of trying to pull off a fancy-meeting-you-here with his ex-wife lasted for all of five seconds. Instead, he nodded, transferring his attention to the other woman, who was removing her hat, water dripping onto the floor that was already dotted with puddles.

  Recognition jolted through him a second time, along with the urge to hug the diminutive older woman. “Mrs. Wright . . . how are you?”

  She peered at him through hazy gray eyes. “Logan?” She reached out and pulled him close, apparently not caring that both of them were wet through. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Where’s Mr. Wright?” Had he asked the wrong question? The last time he’d seen the man he seemed as old as Santa Claus—maybe older.

  “Vanessa left him in the car—it’s parked right outside. She said she’d get me inside first and then go help him. He’s having a little trouble getting out of the car. Doesn’t want to use his walker.”

  His walker?

  “How about if I go help him—maybe bring in your luggage?”

  Vanessa, who’d stood quiet while he talked with Mrs. Wright, gave him a quick nod. “Let me get Mrs. Wright settled, and I’ll come help you—”

  “I’ve got this, Vanessa.” He waved off her protest. “Help Mrs. Wright get dry.”

  It wasn’t hard to find the rental car idling by the entrance. Logan rapped on the front passenger window and then opened the door, squatting down so he was eye-level with Mr. Wright.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wright. It’s Logan Hollister. I don’t know if you remember me—”

  “Logan!” The older man peered at him from beneath the brim of a Seminoles baseball cap. “I told Vanessa I wanted a ride on your motorcycle, but I don’t think this is such a good day for it, do you?”