The next day, Logan got up early. Determined to make the very most of his thirteen days left in Cleveland. He went out for a quick jog (growing more addicted with every step), opened the back door for Spartacus (who had been quarantined in the spare bedroom), and took a long shower to relax his tired muscles (which were confused as to why he wasn’t spending the entire day sitting in an office chair).
When he was finished, he emptied out his suitcase and lay each one of his clothes across the bed—surveying them
with an appraising eye. He hadn’t brought much, because he hadn’t known he was staying. The only non-suit outfit he had, he’d already worn yesterday, and short of what he’d hastily purchased in the hotel gift shop, he was running rather short.
Here’s a thought, why don’t you borrow from your twin? You know—your identical twin? You’re bound to be the same size...
Thinking himself rather brilliant, Logan pulled open the dresser drawer and started rooting around inside. He felt nosy as hell, but was delighted by what he found. It seemed that the only clothes his brother wore were the classic jeans and tee-shirt combination, but from what Logan had seen walking around Cleveland, there was nothing better to blend in.
He pulled them on, smiling to himself all the while. Sure enough, a perfect fit. At this rate, he wouldn’t ever have to go shopping again—he could just send his brother.
After giving himself a quick once-over in the mirror—nervously tucking then untucking his shirt—he reached automatically for the hair gel sitting on top of his bag. He squirted a big dollop into his hand, prepared to slick everything back to perfection, but then stopped a second before it could touch his hair. For a second, he froze—looking between his palm and his reflection. Then he paced deliberately into the bathroom and washed it off his hand.
He wasn’t going into the office today, there were no international meetings or high-level executives to impress. How about he take a page out of his brother’s book and act his age for a couple of days? He was only thirty. Why would he dress like he was fifty?
Feeling suddenly nervous, he ran his fingers back slowly through his hair. It was an automatic habit—one he’d seen Dylan do many times. One he always tried to do himself, before he was inevitably stopped by the dried gel holding back his hair.
Nothing stopped him now. He combed his fingers carefully through, marveling at the soft texture. Noting how long it had gotten as it fell in sandy waves beside his ears.
It looked so much better this way. Elegant, yet relaxed. Why did he bother with the gel?
Just a few minutes later, he was out the door. Feeling alive, refreshed, and animated as he paced cheerfully down the street. Waving to the neighbors. Shooting jealous sideways glances at the neighbors’ much smaller dogs. (why couldn’t Dylan have gotten one like that?!)
He felt like he was in some sort of sunny children’s book. The kind where there was an ice cream cart on every corner, things like leprechauns and true love really existed, and herds of wild ponies pranced merrily down the road.
That happy mood carried him all the way into the coffee shop where he’d gone the other night with Lacy. The smell of espresso hit him hard, and his mouth watered automatically as he slipped into place at the back of the line. Back in Florida, Millard woke him every morning with a scalding hot cappuccino. It had somehow become a tradition—one they never broke.
Maybe he can make this instead, Logan thought absentmindedly, as he moved up person by person to the counter. Maybe I could find out what kind they brew.
He moved ahead slowly, inching his way to the counter. Watching what seemed like a statistically unlikely number of happy couples drift in and out of the store. By the time he made it to the front, a new plan was forming. One that thrilled him and terrified him at the same time.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
Logan looked up suddenly to realize that he was standing in front of the counter. A young man was waiting for his reply, fingers poised over the register.
“Espresso, please. The signature blend.”
“Coming right up.”
The guy started punching numbers into the computer, but before he could finish, Logan spoke up again. “You know what...make it two.”
A few minutes later, he was back outside again—pacing briskly down the street. A quick internet search had located his destination, and before he would have thought possible, he was staring up at a grey awning with wide lettering scrolled across the front.
Verum Investigations
It was small, but elegant. Classy. Exactly the kind of place that Logan would expect after having spent some time with Lacy. He took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, then strolled boldly inside—a cup of coffee clutched tight in each hand.
He was hoping to run into Lacy. He was hoping she’d be sitting behind a desk, and would look up in surprise the moment he came in, like he was her own caffeine-bearing hero.
Not the case.
Not only was Lacy nowhere in sight, but there were no desks. Just a small table pushed into the side of the room, where a young woman was texting—glued to her phone.
Logan hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat. When that didn’t work, he tried again, a little louder. The third time was the charm. The girl lifted her head slowly, furious to have been interrupted, before her jaw dropped to the floor in pure, unadulterated shock.
“Oh. My. Gosh.”
Logan froze in place and resisted the urge to glance behind him—to see if some kind of ‘oh my gosh’ worthy moment was happening out on the street. If only that was the case.