He did actually. “What difference does that make?”

“That sorry fucker tried to set me up,” he growls. He smacks his hand against the wall. “I’m going to kill that little dicksmack.”

I lay a hand on his chest, and he closes his eyes. “She put the moves on you?” I ask.

“If you call those moves,” he says. He covers my hand with his, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart. “It was more like she wanted to drop and suck my dick. It was all I could do to get away from her.”

I cover my mouth. It’s not funny. It’s really not. But a laugh bubbles through. He looks so discouraged. He balls his hands into a fist. “I’m sorry,” I say, when his eyes narrow at me.

“You think this is funny,” he says, and he steps toward me, forcing me to take a step back. My back touches the wall, and his hands land on each side of my head, boxing me in. “You find it amusing, do you?” But his voice has gentled, and he nuzzles his lips against my neck.

“Well, the look on your face was pretty priceless,” I say. He finally grins.

“The look that said I needed to get the f**k out of there?” He kisses me softly and tenderly, and I realize he has a smudge of lipstick on his cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb.

“Did she kiss you?” I ask.

“It was more like I had to play ‘Dodge the Kisses,’” he says. “She was determined to get lipstick on me.”

I wipe at a smudge that’s on his neck. This should make me angry. They’d hoped to make me angry at Logan. But I’m really just sad. It hurts me that they would try such a thing on such a good man. “I’m sorry,” I say as I place my head on his chest again. He takes a deep breath, and I can feel the tension drain from him.

My mom pokes her head out onto the terrace, her gaze worried. “There you are,” she says. “It’s time for dinner.”

“Do you want to go home?” I ask Logan. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

He arches an incredulous eyebrow. “And let them win? Fuck no. Have you lost your mind?”

He takes my hand and pulls me toward the family table. Both Dad and Trip look sheepish, and Mom looks lost.

“Nice try,” I say beneath my breath.

“Em,” Trip says.

“We’ll discuss it another time,” I say to cut him off.

Trip nods. I’m afraid I’ve just given him hope where there is none—and never will be any.

Logan

I can’t believe they f**king did that. Of all the lowdown, dirty, underhanded tricks to play… I pull out a chair for Emily so she can sit down and scooch her closer to the table. I sit down beside her. The waiter brings us a modified menu and leaves them in front of us. The dinner has limited choices.

Trip opens his mouth and starts to read the menu out loud.

“Stop it,” Emily snaps.

Trip looks up, his mouth still open, paused on a word. “I was just trying to help. I know how much you hate menus.”

I want to punch him in the f**king face.

“I’ll be fine,” Emily says. She leans over my shoulder and looks down at my menu. “What are you having?” she asks, smiling at me. I know she’s not reading the menu. She never does. She wouldn’t, particularly with all these people watching. She keeps her dyslexia a closely guarded secret. And she will refuse to show weakness, even at a table full of people who already know.

“I’m trying to decide between the chicken, beef, and fish,” I say, giving her an out.

“Which one of the chicken dishes appeals to you?” she asks.

She wants chicken. Okay. Let’s go for clue number two. “Chicken parmesan.”

Her face lights up. “Ooh, I’ll have that, too,” she coos.

“I think I’m going to have the filet,” I say to the waiter. “Medium.”

“I thought you wanted chicken,” she says.

I shake my head. I just wanted to be sure she had her choice of chicken. She understands immediately, and my heart warms at the genuine happiness on her face. It’s so f**king easy to make this woman happy. So easy. Anyone with a heart and half a brain could do it. But I’m lucky because she picked me.

Trip snarls at us from the other side of the table. He looks pretty unhappy. “Who was the blonde, Logan?” he asks. “You two looked pretty good together.”

I take a sip of my water. “You tell me, Trip,” I say.

“How should I know?” he asks. “I think she’s one of the models. Definitely not someone I’d hang out with.”

“Why not?” Emily asks, her smile sweet. “She doesn’t make enough money?”

I bite back a laugh. Dinner arrives, and it’s really difficult to read lips when people are eating, so I miss parts of the conversation. Dessert comes next, and I can catch more as the forks and the cups slow down.

“Emily,” her dad says. “The congressman and his son are here. I’d like for you to go and meet them.” He stands up and holds out his hand.

She takes it, looking over her shoulder. I sign the word fine at her really quickly and nod. She can go; I’ll be all right.

Mrs. Madison is talking to a woman on her right, and Trip is glaring at me. So, I take out the notepad that’s always in my pocket, pull the nub of a pencil from the spirals at the top, and start to sketch. Mr. Madison has a tricky problem within his ad campaign, and I can solve it, so I want to get it down on paper. He may never use it, but if he does, it may score me some points with him. I doubt it. But maybe.

I put my ideas on paper, sketching words and scenes that might be a commercial or print advertising. I’m totally engrossed in my ideas when Emily returns. She sits down beside me and says, “I’m back.”

“My world is now complete,” I respond.

She rolls her eyes and leans over to kiss me quickly. “That was cheesy,” she says.

I shrug. I don’t care. It’s true.

“What are you doing?” she asks, looking down at my sketch.

“Doodling,” I say, grinning at her. She snags the notepad and flips through the pages.

“These are really good,” she says. She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide. “I mean, really, really good.” She passes my pad back to me, and I shake my head.

“Probably not worth the effort,” I say.

She heaves a sigh. “Probably not.”

I lay my pad on the table and stand up. “Come and dance with me,” I say. I pull her into my arms and spin her around the dance floor. She’s breathless when we come back.

I look around for my sketch pad. “Hmm,” I say. “It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” she asks, her cheeks rosy and her breaths quickened.

“My notepad.”

She worries her lower lip. “Maybe one of the servers picked it up by accident?” she suggests. “Do you want me to ask?”

I shake my head. “It was just a notepad.” I have a lot of them, and they end up scattered all over the house. But as a deaf man, you never know when you might need one.

She looks at me shyly and says, “Can we go and dance some more?”

I’d do just about anything for her. So, we go and dance the rest of the night away.

Emily

It’s more than a little awkward when my dad’s limo pulls up in front of Logan’s apartment building to drop him off. He looks at me like he wants to take me with him, and I want to go. But my dad is in the car, and I know he won’t like it. I nudge Logan’s leg, and he reaches over, offering his had to my dad.

“Thank you for the wonderful evening, Mr. Madison,” he says. He smiles at my mom. “And Mrs. Madison.”

Begrudgingly, my dad takes his hand. Logan looks down at me one more time, kisses my forehead, and then the driver opens the door. He gets out of the car and I follow behind him.

“You’re staying?” he asks, his face lighting with hope.

I shake my head and nod toward the car. “No. He’s going to take me to my apartment.”

His face clouds and he looks up at the stars, breathing in a long breath. I don’t want to leave him. I want to stay here. This is home. Not my apartment and certainly not with Trip Fields.

My stomach twists with the knowledge that I won’t get to sleep in his arms tonight. He won’t throw one leg over my na**d bottom and hold me close to him.

“I have a class at nine tomorrow and another at noon.” I say. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

He shakes his head. “My classes don’t start until three on Mondays, and then I have a lab at six thirty.”

“Oh.”

The window of the limo lowers, and my dad barks at me.

“I know!” I shout. “I’m coming!”

Logan brackets my face with his hands and says, “I want to kiss you.”

My dad starts to whistle, the window still down. I’m glad Logan can’t hear it because it’s annoying the crap out of me. “I want to be kissed,” I say.

He groans and presses his lips to my forehead, holding them as he breathes in and out, in and out.

In a perfect world, I could go home and we could talk late into the night on the phone. But that can’t happen with us. Logan can use a TTY, but it wouldn’t be the same.

“Emily,” my dad warns.

“I have to go,” I say, and I kiss him quickly on the lips. The driver holds the door open for me, and I slide into the car. I feel like he’s shutting the door to happiness when I have to leave Logan. I sigh heavily and lean back against the backrest. This sucks.

Logan

I run up the stairs as quickly as I can. Paul is standing in the kitchen and spins to face me when I run in and slam the door.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “Someone stole all your clothes and brought you home dressed like a f**king douche.”

“Can I borrow your bike?” I ask, my breath rushing from my body. I need to go, and I need to go quickly.

“It’s too f**king cold to ride the bike,” he warns, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you want it?” Paul has a Suzuki street bike that he won in a card game. He doesn’t drive it this time of the year.

“Can I borrow it?” I ask, hurrying to get my lined overalls and a stocking cap. I don’t have a ton of cash for a cab and the subway will take too long.

He opens a drawer and fishes around until he finds the keys. He tosses them at me and my heart leaps. If I hurry, I might be able to get to Emily’s before they do.

“Thanks,” I say.

I pull on my overalls and get Paul’s helmet from the closet. The bike is down in the garage under the building, but there’s no guard and no delay this time of the night. I run down the steps, hoping the damn thing starts when I try it.

The bad thing about cars and things with engines is that I can’t hear when they start. I can feel the vibrations, though, and I put my hand on it and turn the key. It hums for a second, and then it stops. Of course, this would happen. I’m wrapped like a pig in a blanket and the f**king bike won’t start. I turn the key again, and the bike revs to life. I look behind me at the black smoke billowing from it and straddle the machine, kicking it off its stand. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra, but I have a bad feeling about sending Emily home with Trip. I just do. I don’t know why. But it’s there, and I need to get to her.

The city keeps the streets pretty clear, and cars have been on them all day today. Except for some black ice, I’m not too worried about the roads.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to her house. I see the tail lights of the limo pulling away as I drive up. Henry opens the front door and looks out as I stop Paul’s bike in front of the door, looking through the window for Emily. She must have already gone upstairs.

Henry motions me forward. “Bring that thing inside,” he says. He points to the bike and points to the inside again, like he’s not sure I understand. “If you leave it out there, someone might steal it,” he reminds me.

It’s a small bike, but it’s going to leave wet tracks on the tile if I bring it inside. He nods at me in encouragement and jerks his head, gesturing me into the lobby.

I kill the engine and push the bike into the foyer. He points to a storage room, and I roll the bike toward it. He takes a bucket with a mop sticking out of it from the same room, and goes behind the wheels really quickly, cleaning up my mess.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

“No worries.” He cocks his head at me. “Why weren’t you with Miss Madison?” he asks, his brows drawing together.

“Technical glitch,” I say, pulling my knit cap from my hair. I blow into my hands. They’re f**king freezing, even though I had on thick gloves.

He motions for me to come close to the heater blow his desk. “Warm up a bit. Then you can go upstairs.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye, as if I don’t care about the answer to my next question. “Are Emily’s parents upstairs?”

He shakes his head. “Just that man. The little fucker.” Henry is a New Yorker through and through. I never can tell, since I can’t hear accents, but I can tell when men start dropping the f-bomb where they’re from. A laugh bursts from my throat.

“Oh, you have no idea,” I say.

“I do know. He threw a fit yesterday when I wouldn’t give him a key.” He shakes his finger in the air like he’s just remembered something. “Speaking of which, I have your key.” He reaches into a drawer, takes out a small brown envelope, and places it in my hand with a flourish. I could kiss him, I’m that happy. I shake the key into my hand and thread it onto my key ring.