I should have gone to Whole Foods and hit the salad bar (and thus been able to get a cookie from their bakery, a treat for being so good about getting a salad).

I didn’t go to Whole Foods.

I went to Chipotle.

So, since I was at Chipotle, I should get a bowl, not a burrito.

I had no intention of getting a bowl.

I was going to get a burrito.

Therefore, I was standing in line at Chipotle, trying to decide on pinto or black beans for my burrito, telling myself I was going to have salad for dinner (this was not going to happen, but I was telling myself that, something I did a lot).

And in the coming months, I would wish with all my heart that I’d gone to Whole Foods for the salad (and the cookie).

It was lunchtime. It was busy. There was noise.

But I heard it.

The deep, manly voice coming from ahead of me in the line.

A voice that had matured, was coarser, nearly abrasive, but I knew that voice.

I’d never forget that voice.

“Yeah, I signed the papers. Sent ’em. Not a problem. That’s done,” the voice said.

I stood in line having trouble breathing, my body wanting to move, lean to the side, look forward, see the man attached to the voice, needing that, but I couldn’t seem to make my body do what it was told.

“Not set up yet with a place, don’t matter,” the voice went on. “Got a condo in the mountains for the weekend. Takin’ the girls up there. So I’ll come get ’em like I said, four o’clock, Friday. I’ll have ’em at school on Monday. I’ll sort a place soon’s I can.”

I still couldn’t move, and there was an even bigger reason why then.

Takin’ the girls up there.

I’ll have ’em at school on Monday.

He had children.

Logan had kids.

Plural.

I felt a prickle in my nose as my breathing went unsteady, my heart hammering, my fingers tingling in a painful way, like they’d gone to sleep and were waking up.

The voice kept going.

“Right. You’d do that, it’d be cool. Tell ’em their dad loves ’em, I’ll call ’em tonight and see ’em Friday.” A pause, then, “Okay. Thanks. Later.”

The line moved and I forced myself to move with it, and just then, Logan turned and became visible in front of the food counter at Chipotle.

I saw him, and my world imploded.

“Burrito. Beef,” he grated out. “Pinto. To go.”

I stared, unmoving.

He looked good.

God, God, he looked so damned good.

I knew it. I knew he’d mature like that. Go from the cute but rough young man with that edge—that dangerous edge that drew you to him no matter how badly you wanted to pull away. But you couldn’t stop it, that pull was too strong.