Page 34 of The Wanderer

Way to go with pleasing a woman, dickhead.

He padded to the bedroom door and opened it. Moonlight cast a glow over the living room, along with the reflected city lights scattered outside her window. Her apartment, situated on the tenth storey of an upscale building in Parkville, looked like something out of a magazine, all sharp angles and shiny chrome and designer furnishings. He'd felt uncomfortable the moment he'd set foot inside. Not because he couldn't afford a place like this—he could buy this entire apartment building if inclined—but because it looked exactly like something he didn't want, a real home.

Hope’s personal touches were everywhere, from the red tulips in elongated vases strategically placed throughout the room, to the geometric black and white shaggy rug beneath the glass-topped dining table for four. Music magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table, jostling for space alongside biographies of long-dead musicians and the occasional thriller, with an open notebook covered in scrawl taking pride of place on top. Plump cushions of various size and colours lay scattered across the furniture, managing to appear artistic rather than messy.

Looking around this room brought a lump to this throat, because his mum had had the same talent for taking a hotchpotch of things and making them appear elegant. He remembered trawling the local second-shops with her, being dragged from one to another, a packhorse for her purchases. He hadn't minded despite his token protests because decorating their house made his mum happy and that happened infrequently as he grew up.

Later, she's let slip that she did it for his father, that if she made their home pretty maybe he'd return more often. When Logan had heard that he'd wanted to take a knife to all her cushions and slash them to pieces. Stephen hadn't deserved a home let alone a good woman to keep it nice for him.

Rubbing his chest at the inevitable burn that thoughts of his dad elicited, Logan moved into the living room in search of Hope. A small lamp caught his eyes to the left and he walked over to a desk covered in paper. By the looks of it, she'd been working while he'd been sleeping. He didn't mean to pry but his glance landed on the top page, a song called Yearning. He skim-read the lyrics and damned if that lump in his throat didn't swell. He had no idea who the guy was in the song but he hoped it wasn't him.

He could never be any woman's 'everything'.

Swivelling away from the desk, he spied Hope curled up on the sofa. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even, and with a pink rug draped over her, she looked like a sleeping fairy.

Feeling like a voyeur, he watched her. She wasn't classically beautiful—her nose was a tad too large and her eyes a tad too far apart—but that mouth…discounting the wicked things she could do with it, she had a smile that transformed her face to pretty in an instant. Her lips were parted slightly and he'd never wanted to kiss a woman so badly.

But she'd let him sleep, the least he could do was return the favour.

Besides, he had something important to do, something to get him out of this funk once and for all. Blurting out truth about his past to a woman, falling asleep rather than fucking…he really needed to get his head back in the game.

He padded back into the bedroom, closed the door, and slipped his phone out of his jacket pocket, where it hung on the back of a chair.

He didn't care about the early hour. It would be the best time to call his father; he remembered Stephen always slept late so leaving a message rather than talking to the old man suited him just fine.

He didn't have Stephen's number in his contacts list but he'd saved every one of his father's messages over the years: forty-five in total. Initially, he'd done it as a reminder of the pain Stephen had caused, a self-flagellation tool in case Logan ever weakened and let his father back into his life. But more recently, after he'd heard the news of his dad's cancer battle, those messages had become a symbol of something more.

A reminder of his foolishness if his dad died and he maintained his distance until it was too late.

Calling his father to arrange a meeting could only be a good thing. Purge the past. Confront the lies. And maybe, just maybe, move on without the guilt of his hate eating away at him.

He scrolled through his recent call history and saw his father’s number. His thumb hovered over it for what seemed like an eternity before he tapped it.

His chest tightened and his breathing grew choppy as he held the phone up to his ear, clenching it so tight his fingers spasmed. After two rings, the message service kicked in and Logan exhaled in relief.

“This is Stephen, I can't take your call right now because I'm busy making people laugh. So if you want to make me chuckle, leave a message.”

Something twanged in Logan's chest. His father hadn't changed his message in the last few decades. He'd heard the same cheery recording many times as a kid, when his mum would encourage him to call Stephen so they could maintain a strong bond.

What a fucking joke.

If Stephen had wanted to maintain a bond with his son, he would've come home more often rather than staying away for fifty-one weeks of the year. Asshole.

Logan dragged in a breath and blew it out before speaking. "Hey Dad, it's me. Been thinking about a lot of stuff lately and maybe we should meet up to discuss it. I'm busy this week but one day next week should suit. I'll text you the details."

Logan hit the call-end button before his father heard the tremor in his voice. He hated himself for allowing long-suppressed emotions to bubble up and threaten to consume him. He needed to get a grip. Confronting his dad may be long overdue but it was a start.

The bedroom door creaked open and he quickly shoved the phone into his pocket. The last thing he needed was Hope asking who he’d been calling and why. Not that she’d given any indication of being the clingy type but since he’d revealed too much of himself to her he’d been on edge.

“You’re awake,” she said, swiping a hand across her sleep-filled eyes. “That was an obviously stupid thing to say.”

She looked so damn cute standing in the doorway, wrapped in that fuzzy pink rug, wearing a long black T-shirt that hung halfway down her thighs, one barefoot balanced on top of the other. Her hair frizzed like a halo and a deep wrinkle slashed her cheek where she’d been pressed against the armrest, but even sleep tousled, she was the most captivating woman he’d ever seen.

His chest twanged and there was only one thing he could do to get rid of the uncharacteristic sappiness.

“I’m glad we’re both awake so we get to finish what we started earlier.” He crossed the short space between them and swung her into his arms.

“Hey, I’m heavy, put me down—”

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