Before You Go (YA Romance) (15 page)

Logan heard the door open from the room behind him. He quickly dumped his phone into his pocket and turned into the room.

Margo was staring up at him.

Great.
Just what I need.

She looked gorgeous in a slinky pink sundress, with her hair pulled up in some kind of little flower pin. Her color was good, her cheeks just a touch pink. Her eyes were alert and anxious, her mouth pinched. She was upset—with him.

No shit, with him. Had he really kissed her last night? It still seemed surreal, but yes, he had.

God, he was such a fucking idiot.
To have indulged his little crush, to have let it grow into something so large, so ensnaring.

Margo opened her mouth, like she was eager to speak. Then her hands fluttered to below her chest. She smoothed her dress.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi to you.”
His voice sounded reedy, so Logan swallowed.

“What have you been doing?” Her brown eyes flared with hurt.
Why haven’t you checked on me?

Why, indeed.

 
He shrugged,
then
rubbed his eyes, because he needed something to do with his hands. “I’ve just been working…
Long day today.”
If that wasn’t an excuse, he’d never heard one. “What about you?”

“Not much.” She shrugged. “Read some.
Sat by the pool.
I was surprised I didn’t see you down at the stables.”

Another shrug.
“I was in the fields.”
Hiding from you
.
“How do you feel?”

She smiled—forced. “I’m okay.” Her tone was light. “My head still hurts a little, but overall, I think
it’s
fine.”

She was wearing eye shadow. It twinkled like stardust in the glow of his desk lamp. He wanted badly to grab her, to crush her body against his until he didn’t know anything but her.

When he didn’t reply, she said, “All right then.” She started to turn and he folded.

“Hey…wait.”

She spun around, and the hope on her face was almost more than he could stand.
Asshole
.
That’s what he was.
Nothing but a total, first-rate asshole.

“Feel better,” he told her, then tacked on: “My work here…it comes first. I’d like to have more fun, hang out with you, but…”

He stepped back, hands flipping over, so he showed her his palms.

Nothing here…

“Anyway.”

“Yeah.
Alright.”

The words fell off her tongue as she quickly left. He watched the big steel door slam shut.

15

The next day, Margo sat up in her bed and tossed the wooden cube across the room. It landed on the carpet near the rumpled bed that Logan had used for the last two days, while she had been in the casa. She decided to leave it there. Maybe Mr. Science could solve the puzzle for her. Wasn’t that what he was good for?
Science-y stuff.
Scholarly pursuits.
Prodigy-
izing
.
She hoped so, because as far as she could tell, he was terrible with people.

Or maybe just with her.

Angry—at
him,
and at herself for lying around all day in a pity party—Margo hopped up and smoothed her khaki shorts. According to her winking hippo watch, which she’d clasped around the post of her bed—an announcement to Logan that she’d be returning to the room that night—it was almost time for dinner. She didn’t feel like seeing anybody, so Margo swept her hair up in a ponytail and hurried down into the yard, planning to tiptoe into the casa and sneak into the kitchen to grab a few
tasties
from Oscar.

She didn’t see the need to socialize anyway, since she’d decided to leave ASAP. She’d come hoping to get to know her mother, or to at least find out more about her, but now all of that seemed unimportant. Cindy wasn’t around, and she wasn’t going to be.
Ever.
Yes, the FBI or CIA or whomever had uncovered that pesky plot, but who’s to say she was any safer on her mom’s island? Wouldn’t she be just as safe across the Atlantic with the
Timberdimes
?

Margo slipped into the casa and scampered down the now-familiar hall.
The staff had been bustling around the house all day, cleaning like there was no tomorrow, and now every painting was razor-straight and every nook dust free. It was dinner time (or breakfast, if you were with the Japanese team) and Margo could smell the thick, spicy scent of Oscar’s cooking.

Her stomach growled, and she followed her nose down the hall. She had to pass the dining room to get to the kitchen, and she glanced in. What she saw beside the bar stopped her like a brick wall.

There, suntanned and utterly resplendent in
a pale
blue Polo, was Logan. And beside him, in a forest green pantsuit that shimmered like steel
armor,
was Margo’s mother.
Talking.
Laughing.
With Logan.

Margo stared, frozen, as Cindy clapped Logan’s shoulder. His smile was wider than his face, until he glanced up. His gaze hit Margo and she watched the grin wither. He raised his free hand with cold purpose. His finger extended, each tendon straining toward her.

Oh so slowly, like she was some
slasher
-movie villain, Cindy turned, and before Margo could bolt, her hand was waving. She strode over
confidently,
obviously not even a fraction as terrified as Margo. Logan was beside her, all smiles until he reached Margo first. She had a moment to register his unhappy frown, and then her mother was there.

Though several inches shorter than Margo’s five-foot-three, the woman loomed, everything about her shouting
power!
Her hair was jet black, her lipstick bright red, her straight teeth unnaturally white. Her ivory skin looked like flawless pearl silk. Diamonds the size of nickels gleamed in her small ears.

Cindy and Logan spoke at once, losing Margo in the timbres of their voices. Her body reacted instinctively: heart rate peaking, lungs constricting, cheeks flushing while her hands and feet went ice-cube cold. Though she tried to fight it, panic swallowed her.

Then Logan touched her wrist. The motion was quick—he rubbed his finger over the sensitive skin inside—and the shock of it jolted her out of freak-out mode. She could see concern in his gaze, understanding, and then it was over. Margo looked into Cindy’s wide cat face, nodding as her mother said something about having concussions.

Her voice was Americanized, the hard, punchy words elongated some, but still she sounded angry. Sharp. Was that because she was speaking to Margo, or was that the way she always sounded? She tried to remember from the show.

“…And Jana told me that Logan rode to your rescue?”
         

Cindy sounded amused. She was looking at Logan, so it didn’t really matter that Margo nodded, but she did. “He was great,” she heard herself say.

“That isn’t true.” Logan ran a hand through his hair, and Cindy watched him move, her hawk-black eyes omniscient, like the piercing
Zhuscope
.

Margo wanted to step away, to escape the heat of her mother’s body, to rid her nose of the now-familiar scent of gardenia lotion. She wanted to run, but she stood transfixed, studying the slightly square shape of Cindy’s red nails, looking for pores on her smooth skin, absorbing the texture of her bowl-cut black hair—so much thicker than Margo’s own.

“You are too modest, Logan,” Cindy said. She turned to Margo. “I thought your father paid for riding lessons. Shouldn’t you know never to saddle an unfamiliar horse?”

She smiled as she asked it, but her voice rose slightly at the end.
That was stupid, daughter.

Disapproval.

Margo nodded mutely while her mind spun in circles, testing out thoughts, trying on emotions. How did she feel? What should she say? Things were firing inside her so fast, she couldn’t sense her way ahead. She just opened her mouth.

“I should have known. He was just so pretty… I thought I could handle him.”

Some part of her—a part that was trying desperately to impress—thought her mother would be complimented. For all that she didn’t know about Chinese culture, she always saw horses in their art, so she assumed a pretty horse would be a good thing.

Instead, Cindy’s tundra face scrunched.
“Apollo?”
She tossed her head and laughed. “He is a rescue horse.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A rescue horse.”

“Apollo
rescues
people?”

Cindy’s black eyes widened and her brows arched, the expression saying,
moron
. “
I
rescued
him
,” she said firmly, and so loudly it seemed she wanted the entire kitchen to hear. “Someone could not take care of him. I bought him, brought him here.
A
rescue
horse.”

“Oh. I’ve got it now.” Margo tried a smile, but Cindy’s brows remained skeptically arched.

She glanced at Logan—actually looked to him for help—but his face was blank. He’d taken a half step back, probably wanting to distance
himself
from her failure.

“So…um, when did you get here?” she asked, when it became clear that no one else was going to talk. Her voice sounded high, and it shook slightly.

“I arrived this afternoon.”
      

Margo ran her fingers over the hemline of her shorts. “Did you have good flight?”

“It was a busy flight.
Lots of work to do.”

“How’s that going? Your work,” she
finished,
the word hanging.

“Work is work.” Cindy shrugged. “And what have you done here?”

It was spoken like a challenge. Margo panicked. Directing her gaze away from Logan, who knew the true answer to that question, she fumbled for a lie. “All I’ve really done is
lay
out and read
A Brief History of Time
by Stephen Hawking.”

By Stephen Hawking
?
Of course it was written by Stephen Hawking!

Cindy nodded, her short black hair bouncing slightly.

Logan picked that moment to step in. “How was your time in Zurich?” he asked Cindy. “Were you able to work things out with
Imatech
?”

Margo watched more than listened to the two of them discuss Zurich—she had no idea what they were talking about—and then the planets Logan had found, and what properties they may or may not have. She’d tried to bait her mother by mentioning Stephen Hawking—the truth was, Margo had only touched the book; it was still in its place in the casa library—but Cindy remained focused on Logan.