Page 45 of Mine

I blink several times, shaking my head, surprised. “Personally, no. My husband is catering the event.”

“Oh.” She perks up. “Your husband works at Bistro 59?”

“He’s the executive chef there.” My cheeks grow sore from smiling, pride filling in my chest.

“I was surprised to hear they were catering the event. It’s an excellent restaurant.” She tilts her head to the side, her grin fading. “The owner not so much.”

I laugh. “Are you talking about Max?”

Candace waves me off. “Yeah, we dated a few years back. Man is full of himself.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Anyway,” Candace taps her watch. “I need to get going if I’m going to be ready in time. Will I see you there tonight?”

“I don’t think so. Logan will be working all night and I already made plans to see my friend, Abby. Have a great time, though.”

Candace sighs and taps her fingers on the doorframe. “Okay, I’ll see you on Monday then.” She gives me a quick smile before spinning on her heel and walking toward the elevator.

I send a text to Logan, letting him know I’m leaving work. By the time I get home, there will only be about an hour window of time I can see him before he leaves to head to the hotel where the fundraiser is being held.

On the drive home, my anxiety ramps up in the best way possible. Our marriage has finally turned a corner. It feels like it did in the beginning of our relationship. Every touch and every word felt new and exciting. His touch is fire but his kisses are permanent tattoos. He’s been focused on me and building the new life we set out to build since moving to Seattle.

When I get home, I find a vase of white lilies sitting in the middle of the dining room table. My favorite flower. In front of it is a small envelope, my name printed on the front in Logan’s handwriting. I open it, sliding my finger under the sealed edge.

Lena,

Follow the arrows for a surprise.

Love, Logan

I look down at the floor. White paper arrows line the floor leading to the stairway, a path I hadn’t even noticed when I walked in the door.

I leave the note on the table, sliding off my heels, feeling the cool hardwood floor underneath my bare feet.

“Logan?” I call out. I slide my hand along the railing, already grinning in anticipation of what Logan’s surprise is. The path leads me to the bedroom, the last arrow resting in the threshold.

“Where are you?” I nervously laugh. The house is silent, aside from my steady breaths. I close my eyes briefly, remembering the day our house was broken into. I stood here, in the same position, hoping I wouldn’t find the intruder.

Panic slowly rises in me, beginning to question whether the note was truly written by Logan or not. Maybe I was quick to assume it was his handwriting.

I tentatively step into the bedroom where the hardwood meets carpet. The fabric is soft and quiet.

At the foot of the bed is a plain wrapped box. I look around, hoping Logan will pop up at any moment. I’m standing in front of it, reaching down to lift the lid when two hands slide around my waist. They pull me in, resting me against a large chest. My breath hitches, both startled from the sudden touch and the possibility of it not being Logan.

My fears are extinguished the instant I hear his voice in my ear. “Happy Anniversary,” he says.

I let go of the lid on the box and turn around to find Logan. His jaw is freshly shaved, his hair pulled back into a bun. He hasn’t put on his chef jacket yet, but he’s wearing a perfectly fitted white T-shirt tucked into black slacks.

I examine his face, pulling my eyebrows together. “It’s not our anniversary, Logan.”

“No, not our wedding anniversary,” he says. “It’s the anniversary of the day we met.”

I lift my chin, draping my arms around his shoulders. “You remember things like that?” I laugh. “Does that make me a bad wife for not remembering it?”

He lifts his hand, tucking my hair behind my ear. I’d worn it long and wavy today, relishing in the growing length. I decided to finally let it grow out, giving up on trying to be someone I wasn’t. He shakes his head, pouting his full, smooth lips. “No, Lena. That doesn’t make you a bad wife.”

“Well, thank you.” I stand on my toes, pressing my lips to his. He towers over me, his presence surrounding me. Our kiss is slow, different than the ones I’m used to. Usually Logan’s kisses are fierce and passionate. This one is a silent reminder of the love he has for me. His kiss shoots straight to my toes, my heart racing against his.

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