An hour later, the waitress was casting increasingly nervous glances at him in between rounds of stilted conversation. She filled his glass of water yet again, though he’d drunk less than a third of it. Finally, she conceded, “I—I guess he ain’t comin’. I’m so sorry I made ya wait for nothin’.”
Again, the sincerity of her apology bothered him. Why was she so damn subservient, so meek? She reminded him of a puppy that had been kicked too many times. “Quit apologizin’ for stuff that isn’t your fault. And you didn’t make me wait. I offered.”
“Right. Sorry.” She blushed. “Oops. Guess I do apologize an awful lot.”
Logan grunted. “I’ll walk ya to your car, honey.”
At that, fear crept into her scent again. “Th-thanks,” she said a bit warily, grabbing her long green coat and purse from a hook on the wall.
Logan wanted to reassure her that he wasn’t some creep, but he figured any attempt to do that would only make her more scared. He settled for giving her some space, walking over to the door and holding it open for her, then keeping a meter or so between them as she locked up and they made their way to the far edge of the lot.
He wasn’t terribly surprised to see that her car was some old piece of shit blue Civic, the sort that looked like it may or may not make it down the block intact.
She unlocked the door and turned to face him, and he was suddenly struck by how delicate she looked in the moonlight, how pristine—so out of place amidst the dirty, slushy snow, the dumpsters and the asphalt and her ugly blue Civic. Her pale, pale skin was luminous in the blue-black night, cheeks and nose pink from the cold, pouty lips slightly parted, rich coffee-brown eyes shining with tears from the harsh winter wind.
That wind beat her fearful scent against him, and he took one more step back from her, hoping to ease the assault on his senses. He studied her tightly wound body, poised to run at the hint of a threat. But she seemed intent on showing her gratitude nonetheless. “Well, thank you again, s—I mean, Mr.—um—“
“Logan,” he offered neutrally, folding his arms across his chest and letting his eyes linger on her moonlit features, hungrily imprinting her in his memory. Invite me home with you, some darkly hopeful part of his mind begged, curious to see her body underneath those clothes, to smell her tantalizing scent mixed with his.
But he knew she wouldn’t, smelling all scared like that. She probably never had and never would invite a strange man home with her. She was the type of girl who fell in love with some nice, decent guy. She was the type who could convince a man to take care of her and give her some nice little life, little house, little kids, vacations and school plays and late nights by the fire—yeah, she could do that. She could make a man really happy doing that.
Some other man. Not him. Those kinds of things weren’t for him.
“Mr. Logan. You’re—you’re a good person. It was real nice of ya to wait with me. I’m sorry for wastin’ so much of your time, and I um, I hope ya have a good night.” She ducked her head a little and smiled quickly, as if smiling were some cardinal sin that she was ashamed to be caught committing. And then she turned to climb into her car.
“Goodnight,” Logan said, glancing over her clothed form once more, drawing in her scent for the last time, a little wistfully.
“Goodnight.” The door closed, and she stole one more look at him through the window, then put her keys in the ignition.
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