Page 52 of If You're Reading This
As she steeped her tea—a spruce tip blend Logan had introduced her to last summer—Morgan’s gaze drifted to thewindow above the sink. Something about the darkness beyond the glass made her pause with her cup suspended halfway to her lips.
She leaned forward, squinting against her own reflection on the pane.
She saw nothing outside other than swirling snow and the shadowy outlines of spruce trees bending in the wind.
Still, she reached up and pulled the curtain closed with deliberate care, suddenly aware of her home’s vulnerability in the vast wilderness. The windows, with their warm light spilling out, made her movements visible to anyone standing in the darkness.
Stop it,she chided herself.There’s no one out in this weather.
Nevertheless, she moved through the house and drew each curtain until the cabin felt secure, cocooned against the night.
When she finished, Morgan settled at her table with her tea. She picked up the leather journal she’d been keeping in her bedroom.
The memory of last weekend surfaced as she uncapped her pen.
Logan had stopped by with fresh halibut he’d caught on a rare day off.
She’d invited him to stay for dinner and, to her surprise, he’d accepted.
The evening unfolded in her mind: Logan insisting on cooking, his large hands surprisingly delicate as he prepared the fish; his unexpected knowledge of which wine would pair best; the way his stoic expression had softened when she showed him her latest photographs.
He’d helped with dishes afterward, humming tunelessly—a glimpse of a different Logan than the serious state trooper the world usually saw.
When a pot slipped from his soapy hands, splashing them both, his look of dismay had been so endearing Morgan had laughed until her sides hurt. Later, standing at the door to leave, he’d hesitated just long enough that she’d wondered if he might . . .
If he might kiss her.
Then he’d simply nodded good night.
She couldn’t deny the disappointment she’d felt.
Back in the present, Morgan frowned.
Then she sipped her tea and opened her journal, pen hovering over the blank page as the storm raged outside and something else entirely stirred within.
March 2
If you’re reading this entry, I suppose the habit is sticking. Dr. Winters would be pleased. He’s always saying consistency is key to any therapeutic practice. I doubt, however, that he’d approve of how often my mind wanders to a certain Alaska state trooper when I should be “processing my emotions.”
Logan came over last weekend. Brought halibut and insisted on cooking it himself. There’s something about watching a man who can tackle armed suspects and navigate wilderness rescues concentrate so intensely on not overcooking fish that just . . . does things to me. He has this little furrow between his eyebrows when he’sfocusing—the same one I’ve seen when he’s examining evidence or reading case files.
He dropped a pot while washing dishes and looked so adorably mortified that I couldn’t stop laughing. For just a moment, all that carefully maintained control slipped, and I saw something else there.
Something softer. More vulnerable.
It was like watching ice break up on the river and glimpsing what flows beneath the frozen surface.
I wanted to ask him to stay longer.
I didn’t.
There’s still this wall between us that neither of us seems able to breach. Sometimes I catch him looking at me with such intensity that I think he’s about to say something important.
But then the moment is gone, shuttered away behind that professional mask.
What is he hiding? What am I not seeing?
Maybe I should tell him the truth. Tell him the things that haunt me. Because he’s not the only one with secrets. I hate what I’ve done. I live with that regret every day.
