Crazy Little Thing Called Love (10 page)

He paused in the kitchen doorway before heading to his father's office at the back of the house. “Dad still on the health kick like last year?”

“It's no ‘kick.' ” His mother shrugged and held up her hands. “He's lost twenty-five pounds. And he has me juicing every morning and going to the gym three times a week.”

Amazing.

Being told his father had lost weight and then seeing the new and improved thinner version of his father were two very different things. As his father paced his office talking on the phone about a new property for sale, Logan set the bottle of water on his desk and waited. Gone was the paunch that used to rest above his father's belt, the bit of jowl that had added a
Godfather
look to his face.

Phone call done, his father settled back behind his dark wood desk, motioning Logan to sit down in the black leather club chair set off to one side. A wall of inset bookshelves lined with the classic books he'd collected through the years provided a perfect backdrop to his father's office.

“How are you, son?” His father nodded a brief thanks for the water.

“Good. Enjoying the beach.”

“I don't know why you don't stay at the house. We have plenty of room here.”

Logan gulped back the soda, cold, and with the zing of lemon he relished. They had this same discussion every time Logan came back to Florida. Maybe one year his father would understand he needed space. That staying at the hotel in Destin was a personal preference, not a snub. He liked waking up and having the Gulf just outside his door—well, just outside the hotel's door. “I come to Destin for the beach. And the team is with me—”

“Yes.” His father opened the desk's top drawer and tossed several magazines onto his desk. “How did it feel, having your team make the national news?”

With only a brief scan of the covers, Logan knew what each magazine article detailed. The first two highlighted the killer tornado that had ripped through Kansas last July. The third lasered in on the Stormmeisters, the all-too-familiar photograph of his battered chase car overturned in a ditch. Mud-splattered. The windshield shattered. If he stared at the image long enough, he could hear Max's screams . . .

“Back up . . . back up . . . Logan, the tornado's right in front of us!”

They said a picture was worth a thousand words. Sometimes those words hung suspended in one long scream . . . and silence so loud a man couldn't sleep at night for fear of what he'd see again when he closed his eyes.

His father waved his hand over the magazines. “Is this why you called me a few months back?”

Logan stood and bridged the gap between them, turning the magazines facedown. “Yes.”

“You're finally ready to give up storm chasing?”

“I think it's time.”

“Well, it's probably best to do it now before someone does get killed.”

Exactly. Or before the team lost all its funding. Logan swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. Even if—when—he walked away from the team, how long would it take to forget that day? To forgive himself?

He cleared his throat. “Max is recovering well. I thank God for that.”

“I don't know if it's right to thank God because your—what did that one news anchor say?—‘error in judgment' only put your teammate in the hospital with a broken arm and a broken leg and didn't kill him.”

Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with his father. Not to blink. Back down. Leave the room. It was as if he'd been called into his father's office to explain he'd flunked out of high school. Not that he'd ever dared to do that. No, his father could never complain about his grades.

Logan had failed at his dream—one his father had never understood. Was he making another mistake? “I didn't come here to talk about what happened this summer, Dad. It doesn't change anything.”

“Well, if you're finally ready to grow up and quit storm chasing, I'm ready to offer you a real job.”

And of course his father would bring it all back to that.

He gripped the can of soda with both hands. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Dad. I
have
a real job, with stellar credentials. I'm a meteorologist, and I've led the Stormmeisters—successfully—since I was in college.”

“You know I've never supported your decision to be a storm chaser. You've had ten years to pursue this. Fine. Now you're quitting—and that's a decision I can support.” His father tossed the magazines into the trash can. “I'm offering you the chance to come work for me at Hollister Realty.”

“Dad, you've already got Caron working for you. From what I hear, she's doing a great job—”

“Of course she is. I wouldn't hire her if she weren't capable. But there's room for both of my children in the company.” Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, his father dusted his hands off and then steepled his fingers against one another. “She's dating Alex now. Couldn't make your mother and me—and Alex's parents—happier. If this relationship goes the way I think it will, her priorities will be changing.”

“Dad, selling real estate—providing homes for families—that's always been your passion. And I respect that. But real estate—that's not for me. I've seen how storms destroy people's homes. Don't you remember what happened to Pop Pop and Mom Mom?”

“Of course I remember! I grew up in that house—”

“Exactly!” Logan paced in front of his father's desk. “And all it took was the hand swipe of one tornado to destroy everything—photographs, heirlooms, even Mom Mom's wedding dress. And to . . . to . . .”

“To kill your grandmother.”

Even all these years later, Logan's vision blurred with tears as he remembered how the tornado took his grandmother's life. How could his father sit there and show no emotion?

“I saw how heartbroken Pop Pop was when he realized Mom Mom had gotten caught in the tornado coming back from town. I walked their property with him . . . sifted through the rubble days later. Looking for remnants of their life together. That's why I'm a storm chaser. If I can help figure out a way to predict tornadoes . . . maybe help save lives that way . . .”

“But you said you're done with that.” His father leaned forward. “I'm offering you a good job.”

“I have other opportunities I'm investigating—jobs that will keep me connected with the storm-chasing community.”

“So you're still refusing to grow up and see what I'm offering you?”

“No, Dad.” Logan closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. They always came to this point. “You're still refusing to accept that we can have different dreams.”

An invisible barrier seemed to separate him from his father. Would they ever be able to find any kind of common ground between them?

His dad shoved his chair back from his desk, the squeaking of the wheels causing Logan to look up. “Does your team know yet?”

“No. I wanted a relaxing vacation for all of us. I'm going to talk to them when we get back to Oklahoma. That's soon enough.”

“I was hoping we could tell the family tonight at dinner that you've come to your senses.”

Logan shrugged off the insult. “No, not tonight. Brady and Max and Julie are here, too, remember? They deserve to hear my decision from me first—not announced during dessert. Once they know, then we can tell the family.”

“But your mind's made up? At least you're finished with this foolishness of chasing tornadoes?”

Logan nodded, swallowing back the words burning on his tongue. What was that proverb he'd read this morning? Something about harsh words stirring up anger. He wanted to have a pleasant dinner with his family and his friends—not destroy what his mother had worked so hard to prepare. No more arguing.

All too soon he'd walk away from everything he'd pursued since he was sixteen.

But he couldn't lead the Stormmeisters like this—second-guessing himself, dreading the thought of getting back behind the wheel of a chase car . . .

He crushed the soda can, tossing it into the metal trash can, where it landed on top of the magazines with a dull thud, liquid splashing across the pages. It was time to walk away. All he had to do was replace a car and help cover Max's medical bills—although he would have to fight his friend to do that. Keep lobbying for grants for next summer.

“I'm proud of you, son. I have to admit, it was hard seeing the family's name displayed in the national news like that.” His father stood, giving Logan a swift pat on the shoulder as he walked past. “Let's go have dinner, shall we?”

The sound of his father's whistle drifted down the hallway as Logan sat back down in the chair facing his father's desk.
Now
his father was proud of him—when Logan abandoned everything he'd worked so hard for? Where were the words of comfort or encouragement? Why couldn't his father tell him that he could overcome this? That he believed in him?

Logan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, head down. Ridiculous thought. When had his father ever said that?

A strangled prayer fought for release, caught in the tangles of self-accusation. What right did someone as reckless as he was have to ask God for help?

A little help here, God. I know I don't deserve it. But for Brady and Max and Julie . . . help me do the right thing. To walk away.

“Dinner's ready, brother-mine.”

His sister's announcement yanked him upright.

“Alex, perfect man that he is, is helping Mom get the food on the table. She knows how you love her brisket.” Caron infused a lighthearted tone into her announcement, standing in the doorway of their father's office.

Logan pushed himself up from the chair, pasting a smile on his face, as he joined his sister in the hall, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Thanks, Caro.”

“It's great to see you and your team. Jules knows how to keep those guys in line. I can understand why you love working with them.”

Her words seared a bit, as if she'd spilled a bit of acid on his skin. “Yeah, they're the best.”

“So you and Dad okay? What was the powwow all about?”

“Just catching up, that's all.” He hated not being honest with his sister—but she knew how he and their father had wrangled over Logan's job for years. “How goes it, working for him?”

Caron slowed her steps, her bare feet with toenails painted a brilliant blue silent on the carpeted hallway. “Most days, it's fine. I love my job. In fact, Alex took me out for a celebratory dinner when I passed the real estate exam. And I think Dad appreciates what I do—even if I'm not you.”

Logan pulled his sister to a stop, resting his chin on her head. “I'm sorry—”

“Hey, it's not your problem that Dad's old-fashioned. ‘Need my boy to carry on the family business, you know. My daughter will be staying home and having babies.' ” Caron's gruff imitation of their dad was lousy. “Too bad you're the one who went off to Oklahoma chasing storms and I was the one who only wanted to chase a business degree.”

Was his decision going to make things more difficult for his sister? “Are you happy dating Alex?”

His sister narrowed her eyes. “What kind of question is that? From real estate to my love life? Not that it's any of your business, but yes, I am.”

“The last I heard you were dating some other guy—what was his name? And it's just . . . odd to see you and Alex together, you know?”

“No, I don't know.” Now his sister's eyes glinted a dark blue, like the Gulf when a storm was approaching. “I dated Kade for half a year. It was nothing. And just because we all grew up listening to that silly joke about our parents betrothing us at birth, well, that doesn't mean Alex and I couldn't actually fall in love. We've known each other forever. I trust him. I'm safe with him.”

Logan held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I just asked a question. I am your big brother, after all. Come on, you always swore you'd never date—much less marry—Alex. Said you'd become a nun or run away and join the circus before you'd do that. If you're happy, I'm good.”

“I'm happy—and we're just dating. But you never know.” She nudged his shoulder. “Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing.”

“Then I'm good. And I'm hungry, too.”

“Food's this way.”

“Lead on, little sister. Lead on.”

Logan stashed his books in his locker, shutting the door with a metallic click and then giving the lock a quick spin before heading straight to his motorcycle. No chance of Vanessa getting by him just because this might be the day she broke her after-school routine and didn't stop to talk to Mindy on the steps outside the high school.

But just like the last two weeks, she exited the school's double doors, side by side with Mindy. Stood on the steps and talked with the other girl, smiling and sharing a hug. Waved goodbye as Mindy ran for her bus, her curls bouncing against her shoulders. And then Vanessa shouldered her backpack again and moved toward the parking lot—his way—at last.

Logan leaned against his bike, arms crossed over his chest, the afternoon sun warm on his back. Wait. Wait. No need to jump the gun and holler at her across the empty parking spaces, the cars, the other students, attracting unwanted attention.

“Hey, Hollister.” He kept his voice low. Casual.

She stopped, her head turning right, then left, until he raised his hand.

“Can I give you a ride home?”

She gripped the strap of her backpack with one hand, chewing on her thumbnail, seeming to debate his offer.

How could he convince her to say yes? Let her know he was a good guy? Logan shifted to one side and tapped the spare red helmet hooked on the back of the motorcycle next to his black helmet.