“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.

I knew he’d go from that to what was standing in front of the tortilla lady at Chipotle wearing his leather Chaos jacket.

Tall. His dark hair silvered, too long and unkempt. Shoulders broad. Jaw squared. I could see even in profile the skin of his face was no longer smooth but craggy in a way that every line told a story that you knew was interesting. Strong nose. High cheekbones. Whiskers (also silvered) that said he hadn’t shaved in days, or perhaps weeks.

Beautiful.

So beautiful.

And he once was mine.

Then I’d let him go.

No, I’d pushed him away.

I turned and moved swiftly back through the line, not making a sound, not saying a word.

I didn’t want him to hear me.

Out, I needed out.

I got out. Practically ran to my car. Got in and slammed the door.

I sat there, hands hovering over the steering wheel, shaking.

Takin’ the girls up there.

I’ll have ’em at school on Monday.

He had kids.

Plural.

Girls.

That made me happy. Ecstatic. Beside myself with glee.

I signed the papers. Sent ’em.

What did that mean?

So I’ll come get ’em… I’ll sort a place soon’s I can.

Come and get them?

He didn’t have them.

Signed the papers.

Oh God, he was getting a divorce.

No. Maybe he’d just gotten one.

I’ll come and get ’em…

He was a father.

But was he free?

I shook out my hands, taking a deep breath.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t my business. Logan Judd was no longer my business. He’d stopped being my business twenty years ago. My choice. I’d let him go.

And clearly it didn’t happen, where I’d thought he was heading, where I’d thought his Club was heading. What I’d expected would happen hadn’t.

He was in line at Chipotle, not incarcerated.

He had that scratchy voice, so obviously he hadn’t quit smoking when he should have (or not at all). But he seemed strong, tall, fit.