Like Never Before by Melissa Tagg Page B

trouble?”
    She yanked her arm free and turned. Logan? He held a stack of folders under one arm, wore a gray, unbuttoned plaid flannel coat—looked like something he’d borrowed from his dad—over an untucked Oxford and tie, along with a pinched smile that told her he was trying to hold his amusement in check. Even from the stepstool, she had barely an inch on him. “Just . . . ah . . . a paper jam.”
    â€œYou know, I fixed that thing about a thousand times back when I worked here. If you need help . . .”
    She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” She turned back to the machine, trying to pretend the heat in her cheeks was from the effort of fighting the press and not the man standing behind her.
    Please, it was thirty-five degrees outside, and this building was as drafty as an old garage.
    She’d had the exact same reaction to Logan at the bridge on Saturday, when he’d held his daughter with the pride of an Olympic athlete’s parent. And then Sunday when she’d spotted him in church with his family, way up front in the Walker pew. Had almost considered sticking around after church just to say hi. Almost. Would’ve been the first time in two years she didn’t slip out during the last song.
    She wasn’t even sure why she still attended, really. Maybe just a stubborn hope that one of these days she’d be able to scrounge up some trust in the God who’d let her down.
    Or who she’d let down. Could never quite decide which.
    Aha. Her fingers brushed over a crinkled paper. She gave a hard pull, then felt around to make sure there weren’t any more scraps jamming the inside. She slipped her arm free, bringing the paper with it. “Victory.”
    Logan had rounded to Ledge’s side of the machine, and she could feel his eyes on her as she jumped down from the stepstool. “Try it again, Ledge.”
    This time when he turned on the machine, it chortled into a steady rhythm right away. “Yeah, baby.”
    She balled up the ruined paper and chucked it at the garbage can. Rim shot.
    â€œProud of yourself, are you?”
    She turned back to Logan. “Well, we’ll get the Shopper printed on time.” The tab-sized advertiser they printed everyMonday afternoon was their one actual moneymaker. “So yeah, fairly proud.”
    â€œCan I tell you something?”
    â€œThat you’re impressed with my mechanical skills?”
    The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “That there’s a panel on the side of the press. You have to use a screwdriver to open it, but if you do, you can actually see what you’re doing rather than feeling around blindly.”
    What she wouldn’t give for the kind of poker face that would make him think she already knew this. Just happened to like squeezing her arm down the tight opening to feel for the jam.
    â€œIf not for the fact that Ledge didn’t know it either, I’d feel totally idiotic right about now.” Except, why was Ledge looking at her like that—all contrite? “You knew?”
    He rubbed one hand over his bald head. “You’re just so proud every time you fix it. You always hear it jam from the newsroom, come running back like it’s on fire and you’ve got the only bucket of water.” He shrugged.
    And Logan just stood there, not even trying to hide his amusement anymore.
    â€œWell, I still fixed it.”
    â€œThat you did.” His overly consoling tone might’ve been irritating if not for what might actually be a hint of impressed sincerity joining the humor in his expression.
    And if not for the nerves that refused to settle. Pull it together. You’re thirty, not thirteen.
    It was all those articles and speeches of his she’d read. She’d let his words build him up too much in her mind. Couldn’t separate the real deal