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Author's Chapter Notes:
Okay, so I went ahead and finished this chapter like I said I might (of course) and then, damn it all to hell, I couldn't stop myself from writing a chapter 14 as well.

This chapter--- Eh, it's a toss up. I'm taking a lot of liberties with Logan in this AU world. I'm twisting his gift of drawing into also knowing how to appreciate it. I figure--- hell, it's AU. I can play with him the way that I want. I wanted him to be a touch more sophisticated than most people give him credit for--- even if his idea of a black tie event is wearing a dirty shoelace. ;) So yeah, it's a bit of a stretch, but one I'm (mostly) comfortable in doing.

Chapter 14-- man, oh man. whew. is it hot in here or is it just me? oh... you don't know what i'm talking about yet? what a shame... :p
The night before I'd been all gung-ho about launching Operation: Irresistible. The objective: Make Logan kiss me. But I woke up in the morning as groggy as usual. To achieve the mental sharpness I needed to pull this off, I had to have some coffee immediately.

I stumbled into the kitchen, eyes closed, and fumbled for my coffee fixings. The eyes-closed part was a real mistake, because I walked into a cabinet and stubbed my toe. When Jean jogged up the stairs a minute later, I was still hopping around on one foot, clutching the other and cussing a storm.

She looked at me, her delicate brow wrinkling. "Is that a new Jazzercise routine?"

I glared at her. Die, Jean, die.

She shook her head and pushed me aside. "Go sit down. I'll make your coffee."

"You don't know how to make coffee."

"I've watched you." And to prove it, she put the kettle on and got out the grinder.

"Lucky guess," I mumbled.

"Go sit down." She slanted me a devious look so unlike her, I wondered if I was in the right house with the right sister. "I won't slip you any of my instant."

Oh, god. I hadn't even considered that.

"Calm down, Marie. You get so worked up. Just go sit down."

Fine. I ignored that she took down a jar of Taster's Choice and went into the living room. Eight minutes later-- I timed her with the DVD clock--- she came out with a steaming mug. "Here."

I gave her a suspicious glare and took the cup. I sniffed it to make sure she hadn't done anything weird to it and then took a tentative taste.

"Hey," I perked up. "This is good."

"You don't have to sound so surprised."

"I'm not."

She leveled a look at me as she sat down.

"Okay, I am," I shrugged. "Can you blame me? Have you ever made real coffee before?"

"Not for a snob." She reclined and stretched her legs in front of her. In running shorts, her legs looked miles long. I looked down at my legs and wondered what they looked like. Then I wondered what Logan thought they looked like.

"That's new," Jean said, breaking into my thoughts.

"What?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I called you a snob and you didn't jump down my throat."

I frowned. "I don't always jump down your throat."

Her silence said more than any number of protests.

"I don't."

She raised her mug to her lips and sipped noisily. I crossed my eyes at her and concentrated on my coffee. One minute later (who knew the DVD clock would come in so handy?), she said, "Aren't you up early? Do you know it's Sunday?"

I nodded. "I have a date this morning."

She practically fell out of the chair. "You agreed to a date in the morning?"

I didn't dignify that with a response.

"Because you aren't a morning person," she went on, "so you must like this guy a lot. It's Bobby, isn't it?"

Bobby? I wrinkled my nose. "God, no."

"No?" Her forehead creased. "But on Friday you looked like you got along really well."

We did? He hung all over Kitty most of the time, but maybe Jean was confused. Or in a trance, as it were.

"When you were dancing, it looked so sexy."

Oh. Oh. Logan. Right. She thought Logan was Bobby. "Right. Yeah, I'm going out with B-b---" I just couldn't say it. "---him again."

Her eyes got dreamy. "He looked like he wanted to tear your clothes off and just take you."

I frowned. "Take me where?"

"You're impossible," she shook her head. "Is that where you were all day yesterday?"

"You noticed I was gone?"

"Yes. There was less stomping up and down the house. I don't know how your tenant lives with it."

"I don't stomp. I walk with purpose." I decided to change the subject. "Hey, Scott's coming over later for dinner and a movie, okay?"

Her expression didn't change, not really, but somehow suddenly she looked very sad. "Sure. What time do you want me to leave?"

"Leave?" What kind of crack was she smoking? "Who said you had to leave? I'm just telling you so you don't ruin your dinner."

Her cup smacked onto the coffee table. "You're inviting me?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Hope her medical plan covered hearing loss. I enunciated the next sentence to make sure she got it. "If you make sure you are home at six, you can go with me to get the movie."

"Okay." The way her face lit up was embarrassing. And made me feel bad for not including her in my plans more often.

I cleared my throat, murmured that I was going to take a shower, and escaped. I didn't think I could handle messy emotions this morning. If I was going to make Logan sit up and beg, I had to get moving.

I refreshed my coffee on the way to the bathroom. Deciding to take a bath instead, I turned the faucet on and sat on the toilet, sipping my astonishingly good coffee, while the tub filled. I dumped some lavender bath salts in and eased myself into the hot water.

Heaven. The only way life could be better was if Logan were in the tub with me.

Of course, after soaking for twenty minutes, I had to turn the drain, wash my hair, and rinse. I washed my hair the day before, yes, but I thought I should wash it again. Just in case.

I paused mid-rinse. Maybe I should shave my legs, too.

"Better safe than sorry," I told myself, picking up the razor.

Half an hour later I was fresh, smooth, lubed, and ready to get dressed. Wrapped in my robe, I contemplated my wardrobe. I didn't want to wear jeans again, and I wasn't sure a skirt was appropriate for whatever we were doing.

I had a pair of green bell-bottom capris in my hand when Jean walked in. "What are you doing on your date?"

"I don't know," I answered absentmindedly. If the capris, then which shoes?

"Why don't you wear this dress?" She reached into the closet and pulled out a summer dress. It was great. It was a white and black halter top with a billowy skirt that ended above the knee. Demure, yet not.

"You probably look just great in it," she said with at tinge of what I swore was jealousy.

"Yeah, but what if we do something active?"

She shrugged and leaned against the wall. "He should have told you what the appropriate dress was then."

True. I studied the dress again. It would make an impression. "I bet he'd have a hard time keeping his mouth off me if I wore this."

Jean got a curdled look on her face. "Please spare me the details."

"I'll wear it," I decided. And I'd wear a pair of white flip flips with it, just in case we did a lot of walking. And I'd put my hair up. I read in some girly magazine once that men liked to see the long expanses of women's necks.

I'd just finished getting ready when I heard the doorbell.

"I'll get it," Jean called from the living room.

"Oka---- no." That was all I needed, for her to chat with Logan and call him Bobby. I rushed out of my room, barely passing her before she reached the lower landing. I placed my hand on the doorknob a fraction of a second before she got to it.

I looked up at her and smiled sweetly. "I got it."

The doorbell rang again, and her forehead wrinkled. "Aren't you going to open it?"

"Yeah." Why was she rushing me? I twisted the knob.

Even though I knew it was Logan--- I was expecting him, after all--- I felt a hiccup of startled delight. I grinned, probably like a fool, and said, "Hi."

"Hey." He took in my appearance as if he were cataloguing every stretch of bare skin showing, right down to my toes.

I felt a nervous urge to smooth my dress down, which I restrained with great difficulty. "Is it okay? Tell me now so I can change. I wasn't sure what we were doing---"

"It's fine." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, brushing my neck with the backs of his fingertips.

"You look…"

He stalled, like he was searching for the right word. I wanted to supply him a couple that I thought fit the blank, but instead I waved my hand in encouragement.

"Kissable." He said finally.

I smiled wide. Operation: Irresistible was a success.

Jean cleared her throat. Loudly. I crowded Logan out the door. As I closed it behind me, I called out, "See you later, Jeannie."

A muffled, "My name is Jean" sounded behind the thick wood of the door. But I barely paid attention to her because I was with Logan. I didn't even roll my eyes when she clicked the lock on the door.

I'd already decided I was going to play it cool and let him take me where it was he had planned. So about two seconds after Logan took my hand and started leading me down the porch steps, I asked, "What's on the agenda for today?"

He smirked and squeezed my hand. "Eager, 'eh?"

So what if I was? "Just curious. Can I guess?"

"You won't, but go ahead."

Ah, a challenge. I stared at him and thoughtfully tapped my pursed lips. "Well, we did the carnival yesterday. Paddle boats?"

"No."

I waited until he got into the driver's side to query him again. "Rollerblading?"

"Hell, no." He turned the ignition.

I faced him and tried to discern clues from his face. Impossible. "You're excellent at poker, aren't you?"

He shot me another patented raised eyebrow as he pulled out into the street. "How did you know?"

"Lucky, I guess." I mumbled. But I wasn't going to be so easily defeated. "Sailing?"

"You already said that," he pointed out.

"No, I didn't."

"You guessed paddle boats."

I frowned. "That's not sailing."

"What is it, then?"

My frown deepened at the amusement in his voice. "Not sailing."

He chuckled. "Any more guesses? Or are you gonna give up?"

I shot him a narrowed gaze. "Wineries?"

"No."

"Skateboarding?"

"No."

"Bungee jumping?"

He cocked another brow at me.

"Hmmmph." I sat back, arms crossed, and frowned at him.

"Are you givin' up?" He asked, his lips quirking.

"Never," I declared.

He smiled as he merged onto the highway. "I like that about you."

"Don't think you're going to divert me with sweet compliments.

"Never." He took my hand, set it on his thigh, and covered it with his own. It was high on his thigh, and I had to fight the desire to walk my fingers up to the holy land.

I eyed him suspiciously but didn't say anything because I was afraid I'd have to move my hand, and that thought was simply not pleasant. So we drove on in silence, Logan rubbing his thumb in the grooves between my knuckles and me trying not to hop up and straddle him while he was driving. Amazingly, it required all my concentration, and I didn't realize we were downtown until we parked.

Frowning, I got out of the car and tried to think of what we could possibly do downtown on a Sunday. "Are we going shopping?"

"Do you wunna go shoppin'?"

"No." Frankly, I didn't care as long as it was with him, but I didn't want to give him a fat head. I waited for him to come around the car and slipped my hand in his.

He touched my lips with a finger. "You're poutin'."

"I am not pouting."

He raised a brow.

"I'm not." I resisted the urge to stamp a foot when he grinned.

"Come on." He tugged my hand to cajole me into walking. He didn't have to try very hard—I would have followed him anywhere to find out what he'd cooked up for today.

I quizzed him about our destination while we walked, but he wouldn't even give me a clue, except that we were almost there. Then we stopped in front of a set of stairs up to a classic-looking building.

My jaw must have dropped all the way to the sidewalk, I was so shocked. "The Art Museum?"

He rolled his shoulders. "Told ya that you wouldn't guess."

"The Arm Museum?" I asked him again, inanely. I turned to gawk at him. What did a boxer know about art?

It was like he read my mind. "My mom useta be an artist. I learned a few things from her before she died when I was a kid."

I followed him wordlessly, still in shock. Over the art and that he could read me so well. "An art museum?"

"They've got somethin' here I want you to see. Chagall." He glanced at me to gauge my reaction.

I wasn't sure I knew who or what Chagall was. "I don't really know much about art."

"You don't gotta know anything about somethin' to appreciate it." I must have looked disbelieving, because he slipped his arm around my waist and guided me up the stairs. "It'll be fun."

"You promise?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I promise."

That I didn't doubt; I just didn't want him to think I was lacking in any way. I remembered all those times my mom harassed me to go with her and Jean to the museum, telling me one day I'd regret not going with them, and mentally cursed. I hated when Mom was right.

Logan paid our admission and snagged a map. He opened it and studied it like it led to hidden treasure. "We'll go to this one first," he pointed.

"If the Chagall exhibit is the highlight, then maybe we should hit it first."

He tossed a wolfish smile my direction and said, "Sometimes it's better to have dessert last."

Pursing my lips, I pretended to think about it. "Nope. Can't think of one occasion where that would be true."

Laughing, he led me off on our museum adventure. Mostly, the paintings didn't look any different than the paint-by-number pictures I used to do when I was a little girl, but I tired to pay attention to each and every one so Logan wouldn't think I was bored out of my mind. Which I was. He wasn't even holding my hand anymore, so I couldn't even claim that pleasure. Instead, he walked ahead of me, stopping every now and then and cocking his head like a dog in front of the odd canvas.

I concentrated so hard that by the second room I'd developed an enormous headache. I guess it was obvious something was amiss by the way I was rubbing my temples, because the next thing I knew Logan walked up behind me, snaked his hands around my waist, and hugged me to him. "You okay?"

"Well---" I frowned at the painting in front of me. "---I just don't get why a picture of a bowl of fruit with a bird perched over it is so great."

"It ain't."

"It isn't?"

"Nope."

I tried to turn around to confront him, but his arms were like bands of steel holding me in place, so I settled for glaring at him over my shoulder. "Then why the hell are we here?"

"You're approachin' it all wrong, darlin'." He nodded toward the painting. "Art is subjective. Not everyone would find this here intriguing."

"I know. Only fruit flies and dogs with avian fetishes."

He chuckled against my neck. "What you need to do is find one that arouses your passions."

I would have rather had him arouse my passions, but I decided to humor him and try what he suggested. With his arm still around my waist, he led me through several rooms until we were in a different wing. The paintings here were different; more naked women and less fruit.

"Pick one that intrigues you," he suggested.

He let go of me and wondered off, drawn by a picture of a particularly robust nude woman. I hoped that wasn't what he was attracted to, because compared to her I was a stick.

Instead of looking at more art, I studied Logan. Forget the paintings—the look on his face was absolutely mesmerizing. Like he was staring at a clean pool of cool water after walking hundreds of miles in the heated desert. He gazed at the blob of paint like it was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.

I didn't know whether to be jealous or in awe of such feeling. Feeling overwhelmed and needing breathing room, I headed off into an adjacent room. "A lot of naked women," I murmured, looking around at the other museum goers. You'd think more men would hang out here; it was a whole lot more tasteful than subscribing to Playboy. No articles though.

In the center of the room, there was a large painting of a young woman reclining on a white sheet, a bird settling on her hand. Something about her expression attracted me.

"You like it?"

I turned around and looked at Logan, who had once again plastered himself behind me. This time I relaxed into his embrace as I faced the painting again.

"She looks kind of---" I shrugged "---thoroughly debauched. Like he ravaged her before he painted."

"She does look pretty damn happy."

I wanted to be her. Limp, on a bed, with perky nipples. "There's still a damn bird in it, though."

He grinned. "Come on."

Logan took my hand and we casually strolled through the galleries, stopping occasionally when he wanted to point something out that he thought I might like. He even told me some interesting facts about some of the artists in the World War II exhibit that his mother had shown him.

I watched him as he talked about his mom. His love for her shined through his eyes. "She sounds pretty great."

"She was," he agreed. "She'd have liked your spirit."

I cleared the lump that formed in my throat at that admission. "My mom tried to take me to museums when I was younger. But I stayed home instead. Jean went, though."

At the time I didn't think my mom and Jean really wanted me there with them. Now, I remembered Mom imploring me to go along with them. At least for a little while, after a while she didn't bother asking anymore.

Hmm.

Logan led me to a series of paintings that were obviously from one artist.

"Oh, my God." I exclaimed.

"These are O'Keeffe's flowers."

"Um, Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"These are not flowers."

He grinned. "Sure they are."

I blinked a few more times and then let my eyes go unfocused, like those 3-D pictures where dolphins and boats pop out if you stare at them just right. After a minute, I shook my head. "Nope, I only see womanly parts." I narrowed my eyes at him. "That's why you like art, isn't it? Because of its pornographic qualities."

He laughed but didn't exactly give me an answer.

I raised my brows hopefully. "Do they give you ideas?"

He closed the distance between us, his hands gripping my hips. "You give me ideas."

I tipped my head back and flirted with danger. "What kind of ideas?"

"Of the floral variety."

I pictured myself spread open for him like the flowers in the paintings, bared to his touch. I grabbed the museum floor plan out of his hand and fanned myself.

His grin was dark and knowing, like he could smell the arousal on me. "Let's go see the Chagalls."

I nodded, but remained in a sexual fantasyland. I didn't snap out of it until we stood in front of a painting that took my breath away.

It was love personified, sexy and innocent at the same time. The man sat on a chair with the woman sitting on his lap, their figures entwined, his hands suggestively and protectively on her. At first glance you knew the couple in the painting were soul mates. There was a depth of emotion in this one that I didn't see in the other works of art. It was exactly what I wanted, and it brought tears to my eyes.

"This one," Logan said, holding me tight against him. "This one attracts me."

I rested my head on his shoulder and stared at the paining until it was time to go. The trip home was silent. You could have heard a pin drop, except for the purr of the engine. I was still dazed by the last paining.

Thrilled, disturbed, and confused, I glanced at Logan. He specifically wanted to show me that painting. What was he saying?

I turned, folded my left leg under me, and stared at his profile. I tried to will myself to see beneath the surface, but all I saw were the beautiful sharp planes of his face. It was a face I could see waking up to for, oh, the next sixty years or so.

He threw me a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. "How ya holding up? You okay?"

"Yeah." No. I sighed. I wasn't sure. I opened my mouth to ask him what our excursion meant to him. Then I wondered if I really wanted to know, because once you have knowledge there's no going back.

And what would it mean? Say Logan admitted he believed he was my soul mate. After I got over the jumping up and down screaming phase, what then? Take him home to my parents? Right. I could just see it. Hi, Mom and Dad—I dumped my well-off, successful boyfriend and hooked up with a boxer who was in the military, but he gets me even if he isn't socially conscious and has little means.

Like I said, right.

I was better off not knowing what showing me Chagall meant to him.

To hell with it--- I wanted to know. "Why did we go to the museum?"

Logan pulled over to the side of the road, turned the car off, and faced me. "Why do you think we went?"

"I asked you first."

His lips quirked a little, but he refrained from smiling. "Don't you already know?"

"No."

He raised a brow.

"Okay, maybe I do know." I rubbed the tip of my nose. "But I want to hear it from you."

"I don't think you're ready to hear it," He said.

"Oh, I'm ready," I reassured him.

He studied me as if he were probing beneath the layers of my psyche. I opened my eyes wide so he could look inside me easier to see I meant it. Only I held my eyes open like that for so long, they dried and I had to blink furiously.

Logan laughed softly and cupped my face with his free hand. "God, I love you, Marie."

I stopped blinking, thankful I was sitting down because I would have toppled over at the admission. As it was, I almost slid off the seat onto the floor.

His smile turned wry. "See? I didn't think you were ready."

"No! No." I shook my head. Then I nodded. "I'm ready. Really."

He didn't look like he believed me.

"Well---" I frowned in confusion. "—how do you know? We'd barely talked until a couple of days ago."

"Marie, I knew the first time I met you. I've just been waiting for you to realize Bobby wasn't the one for you."

"Really?" I tried to stay logical, but the excited girly part of me inside wouldn't sit still. "From the first time?"

He tipped his head, his gaze direct and revealing. "Didn't you?"

I pursed my lips. "I'm not sure."

His eyes called me a liar.

Okay, so if I really thought about it, yeah, there was something there from the beginning. I'd thought it was just sex. Guess I was wrong.

I scrunched my face. "But we haven't even kissed yet."

"No, we haven't." His thumb was a slow drawl on my lips. "I should get you home."

The nerves in my lips had never felt so alive. If a finger could do that, imagine what lips could do. I bet they were really talented. I bet they could perform any number of tricks. I stared at them and imagined.

"Now I know I should get you home." He dropped his hand but I could tell he didn't want to by the sex-laden tone of his voice.

Without thought, I lowered my gaze to his lap.

Gulp. Talk about sex-laden.

He put both hands on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and stared the car. We got to my house too quickly, and I was still at a loss as to what to do when we got there.

Logan came around the car and opened my door for me. I stepped out and he plastered himself against me, his gaze full of longing and want. He pressed forward and lowered his head.

This was it. This was when I'd finally find out how he kissed, how he tasted. This was the time for action. I wanted to lean into him, grab him, and hold him close.

But I couldn't. Bobby and my parents and Jean's party loomed over me. Not to mention the little four letter word Logan had bandied around earlier. Which was huge, exciting, even, but in a life-flashing-before-my-eyes kind of way.

So, right as his mouth hovered over mine, I pushed him back. "I need time to think."

He studied me like he was going to say something, but changed his mind and just nodded. He took a reluctant step back, and then another until he was back in the car.

"Well, damn," I said as he drove away.
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