Chapter 17

Valentine

“This is really making me nervous,” I tell Logan as my fingers curl into a death grip.

“You’re doing fine,” he says encouragingly.

“Not nervous,” I clarify. “I’m scared. Like really scared.”

Logan laughs and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s just to the end of my driveway, Valentine. A hundred yards. Piece of cake.”

“So says the man who’s been driving for two decades,” I grumble.

“Ouch, that makes me feel old,” he grumbles back.

I put aside my fears and turn slightly in the driver’s seat to look at him. I slide a palm to his cheek and tell him with all sincerity, “At thirty-seven, Logan Burke, you are without a doubt the sexiest man I have ever been with.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth. It’s a comparison I’ll have to totally devote a blog article to, because there is something to be said about a man with experience. I’ve been at Logan’s house for four days now, and I’ve had the best sex of my life in those four days compared to all the other times combined. I actually could do a month-long blog series just on how good Logan is and insist on my female readers to get their men to read the articles to teach them something.

But even as I think these things, a weird feeling creeps up inside of me that makes me a little nauseated. I’m not sure what it is, but the one thing that pops into my mind is that I don’t want to share those details about Logan with other women. It would totally take away how special it is.

But that’s neither here nor there, and I have some time to think about it. For now, my foot is mashed hard on the brake even though his truck is still in park. I would have preferred to have my first driving lesson in his Jeep, which is much smaller, but he told me it was a manual shift and that would be too difficult.

Of course, I had asked, “What’s a manual shift?”

Logan had howled with laughter and led me over to his big truck.

To his credit, he gave me a lot of instruction before this moment.

I’m still scared shitless.

“Really, Logan,” I implore. “I don’t need to know how to drive. I live in New York.”

“Yeah,” he says with a dimpled smile. He had shaved this morning. “But you could totally fall in love with Alaska and decide to stay. Then you’d need to know how to drive.”

I grin back at him. “Yeah, but I’d just have you drive me everywhere.”

“I totally don’t have time to be your chauffeur,” he assures me with a smirk.

“Not even if I deep throated you every time you gave me a lift?” I taunt him, and God…the way those light blue eyes go denim dark just from those words has me squeezing my legs together.

Logan leans across the cab closer to me and kisses my neck. “You know what I want to know?” he asks, his voice all sexy and husky.

“What’s that?” I whisper back, wondering if we can have sex in his truck before we leave.

“I want to know if you can take me down your throat while you’re riding my face,” he says smoothly.

And I want to know that answer too. Logan and I have done a lot of different positions these past four days, but we haven’t tried sixty-nine like that yet.

“Wanna go find out?” I murmur.

His eyes go darker but he moves back over into his seat, adjusting his erection. “Fuck yes, I want to go find out, but we have to be at the town square in fifteen minutes. Now will you just drive to the end of the driveway and I’ll take over from there.”

I sigh and cautiously pull the gearshift down to put the truck in drive as he’d instructed me. I find it hilarious that the most crazy, scary thing facing me right now is driving down a gravel driveway, and not the fact that Logan just casually dropped I could potentially live in Alaska one day permanently and I didn’t even balk at the idea.

There are many things I’ve come to appreciate about East Merritt, but my favorite—after Logan—most definitely is their annual Moose Festival. This would beat out The Wounded Caribou and Ted’s crazy story of how he named it just marginally, but I can’t deny that I’m completely excited about this weekend’s festivities.

Tomorrow there’s going to be the Moose Poop Drop.

Yes. The Moose Poop Drop.

It’s to raise money for the town and is quite a popular event. Apparently, there’s a large field that sits about a mile outside of town that’s the size of at least five football fields. Just yesterday, it was mowed and then marked into a large grid with spray paint. Each square is worth twenty dollars. Town residents buy as many squares as they want, and if all squares are purchased, it could raise ten thousand dollars for the town. I feel completely guilty because I’d spend that amount on a weekend shopping spree, but this money is a lot to this town and could make great improvements in their lives. Logan told me yesterday the money was already earmarked to put in playground equipment at the small park in East Merritt, as well as help to buy computers for the school.

So tomorrow the great Moose Poop Drop is going to happen. A trunkful of petrified moose feces will be flown in a small plane above the East Merritt field and dumped. One of those pieces has been spray painted gold, and whichever square it lands in, the person who bought it gets half of the money. The other half goes to the town.

I bought ten squares myself.

Tonight, however, Logan—as mayor of this town—will kick off the festivities. He wasn’t lying when he said there wasn’t much to his job as mayor, but this is one of them. So, true to his word, I drove at two miles per hour down his driveway with my hands sweating, and then he drove the rest of the way into town.

He’s standing on a small platform that’s been built on the town square and is set up for a band to play later. Tonight is a dance and barbecue, and the whole town is expected to turn out. My experiences have been so limited to those people I’ve met in The Wounded Caribou that I’m eager to learn more about the residents here.

A huge crowd has gathered before the platform, but I stand at the back. I’m a visitor and Logan isn’t my mayor or my police chief. He’s just my…man?

Yes, he’s my man, but he’s up there now in official capacity and he’s talking to his people.

Leaning in close to the microphone to address the town, he’s just still very much Logan: gorgeous, outgoing, charming. “Okay, folks. It’s good to see so many of you come out tonight. We’ve got smokers going on over there”—he points off to the side where Ted is overseeing the cooking—“and in about an hour the Jeff Crool Band will be performing for us. It’s a time for us to come together, relax, and be neighborly. East Merritt is a hardworking town, and this is the weekend we can just have fun together. I know the alcohol will be free flowing, but let’s keep the fights to a minimum, okay? I’d like to enjoy the evening too.”

And his eyes come right to me when he says that, and I in turn get butterflies in my stomach, which is something that has never happened in my life. I’ve never had a man look at me in such a way as to cause that type of reaction, and I have the insane urge to run up on stage and hug him.

Just hug him.

Wrap my arms around his big body, knowing he’ll do the same. He’ll even bend his head and nuzzle his cheek against my temple. He’s done it before and it feels fucking phenomenal.

I shake my head and take an involuntary step backward, my hand coming to rest over my chest. My heart is racing, and for one crazy moment I wonder if this is what it feels like to fall for someone.

It’s never happened to me before, so I can’t be sure. I might need to ask Jeremy and he’ll tease me ruthlessly, but whatever. I need to know because if that’s the case, then I’m in deep trouble. I’m not ready for this to happen.

“Penny for the thoughts going around in that beautiful head right now,” Logan says with his lips near my ear. He had come up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and making a very public display of affection toward me. He’d been doing this all week whenever we came to town and it didn’t bother me.

It totally didn’t bother me at all.

I lean back into him and note with amazement at myself that this feels actually pretty damn good.

Another distinction for me to note. My past experiences with men were well planned out dates, impressive meals, words designed to get in my pants—some worked, some didn’t—and usually hot, sweaty sex, where sadly most of the men didn’t care whether I got off. A public display of affection may be holding hands as we walk into the Met for a gala, or a kiss on the cheek in greeting.

Not, Logan, though.

He touches me all the time. Looks at me all the time. Sometimes sweet, sometimes with filthy intent. He lives his life spontaneously and that includes my place in it.

Maybe he comes home from work and says, “Get your dancing boots on, Valentine. Let’s head into Ketchikan for some fun.”

Or he may walk in the door, push me up against the wall, and jerk my pants down around my ankles so he can tongue me to a quick orgasm.

Jesus…he’s like the perfect man.

“Valentine?” he inquires, this time turning me around in his arms so he can see my face. When he does, his brows knit in concern. “Are you okay? You’re pale as a ghost.”

I shake my head, step into him, and bury my face in his chest. His arms come around me again and he squeezes, and my heart starts thumping hard again.

I’m in deep, deep trouble.