Page 10 of Tattered (Lark Cove 1)

“Get that frog!”

Chaos erupted at my back. Stools scraped as a couple of the regulars abandoned their seats. Someone knocked over a glass because I heard the unmistakable sound of beer splattering on the floor in between a slur of curse words. And Jackson started howling with laughter.

“Jackson, help,” I barked over my shoulder, only to make him roar louder.

“What is happening?” Hazel’s voice floated above all the other noise. “Oh, no. Charlie, what did I tell you about that frog?”

“But Gran, I had to show Mommy,” she said, abandoning her pursuit to defend herself.

“You can’t bring frogs inside,” Hazel said.

“But—”

“Could I get some help here?” I shouted, bringing the frog back to focus.

“Jackson Page,” Hazel scolded. “Stop laughing and catch that frog.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled as the thud of his boots echoed on the floor.

I kept chasing the frog, right to the corner of the bar. It had stopped by the edge, so I swiped fast, gripping one of the frog’s back legs. “Gotcha!”

Relief washed over my shoulders, but as I tried to pick the frog up, the damn thing squirmed hard and got free.

“Shit!” I yelled as it landed on the floor and bounded away.

“That’s a bad word,” Charlie chastised.

“Shoot!”

Still on my hands and knees, I rounded the corner of the bar, hustling to catch the frog before it could disappear into a nook or cranny. I stretched to reach for it again but lost my balance when one of my palms skidded on a peanut shell.

Damn it! This wasn’t happening.

My daughter hadn’t just brought a frog into my bar, violating every health code in the book. I wasn’t on my hands and knees, chasing an amphibian through peanut shells in front of the classiest man I’d ever met. I wasn’t about to make the most difficult confession of my life with frog slime on my shirt.

This could not be happening.

I regained my balance and looked up, but instead of seeing a frog, I saw a pair of camel wingtips.

My eyes ran up the shoes, over their laces, to the crisp denim that covered long, powerful legs. As I stood, my gaze continued up past the leather belt that wrapped around hipbones I’d once tasted on my tongue. Then up a starched, white polo that covered Logan’s washboard abs.

Steady on my feet, I avoided looking at his face in favor of his muscled arm. Veins snaked over his bicep and down to his tanned forearm. His wristwatch cost more than my car. And his fingers . . . held a squirming frog.

“You got him.” Charlie appeared at my side, smiling up at Logan as she reached for her latest captive. But before they could make the transfer, her hands froze and her head cocked to the side. Under the backward band of her baseball cap, her eyebrows were furrowed.

Oh, god. Did she recognize Logan? Charlie had asked me a couple of years ago about her dad, and since I hadn’t been able to tell her much, I’d drawn her a picture of him. Did she see the resemblance to my sketch? This was going to turn into a cluster—well, more of a cluster—if she started asking questions before I had a chance to tell Logan about her.

My head was swirling and my breaths came in hard pants as I tore my eyes from Charlie’s puzzled face to look up at Logan.

But he wasn’t paying me any mind. His attention was entirely on Charlie.

“Your pinky has the same bend as mine.” Charlie touched his finger, then lifted her hand, wriggling her fifth finger.

The chaos and noise from moments ago was gone. The bar was deathly silent as Charlie’s words rang in the air. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. Jackson. Hazel. Wayne and Ronny, a couple of our regulars. All I could do was stand frozen, waiting for Logan’s response.

“Um, Charlie.” Hazel’s voice broke the quiet. “Let’s get that thing outside.”

“Okay, Gran.” My daughter reached up to collect her latest pet from Logan’s hands, just as Hazel came around the bar to shuffle her away.