The Couple Most Likely To

Needs.

“Hmm,” she murmured. “Five separate controls, and none of them have words on.”

“This one?” He reached toward it.

“Maybe.” She seemed skeptical, and tilted her head. At thirty-five, the fluted line of her neck was still smooth. “But which setting? Do we want plain rectangle, or rectangle with horizontal line near the top, or rectangle with—”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “What happened to words? And what idiot designs these symbols?”

“I’m going out on a limb, here. I’m going with rectangle with horizontal line near the bottom and Mercedes-Benz symbol in the middle.”

“I think the Mercedes-Benz symbol must mean the fan, although I’m sure the car company is appreciative of the publicity.”

Stacey laughed, then turned the control to the setting they’d agreed on.

Nothing happened.

She shrugged at him and smiled. Not the million-watt smile, but the crooked one with the dimple in one cheek. Her sarcastic smile. He remembered it very well. Only Stacey Handley produced dimples along with her sarcasm. “Any new theories, Sherlock?” she asked.

Right now, he didn’t want theories. He didn’t care if it took their combined brainpower another hour to work out how to switch the oven on, as long as it meant they could keep standing close—flirting, remembering the good times instead of the bad—and he could watch her mouth as she spoke.

More people had arrived. What was it about parties that made everyone crowd into the kitchen, when he had that whole professionally decorated great room through the doorway, where they were supposed to congregate? He heard greetings, including the voices of his brothers Ryan and Scott, but didn’t turn around.

“This one must be the timer setting,” he said to Stacey, as if the oven controls also governed the whole solar system.

“And this is the temperature control. It does actually have numbers, if not words.”

They both reached for the remaining knob at the same time, and Jake’s hand landed on top of hers. They turned and looked into each other’s eyes. “I—I’m not prepared for this,” she said, breathy and gabbling. “I know I’m responsible for it just as much as you are. But I’m not prepared.” Still…she left her hand where it was, beneath his. He let the ball of his thumb make slow circles over her knuckles.

“Let’s assume it blows up Russia and go with the rectangles instead,” he said softly.

“I—I didn’t mean the control.”

“I know, and you’re losing yours a little, aren’t you?”

For an answer, she just closed her eyes.

“So am I,” he muttered, intending that she should hear, and she did. She pressed her lips together into two tight lines and he wanted to kiss them and soften them and make them part, using his own mouth.

Hell, what was he doing?

He couldn’t afford this. Neither of them could. They shared a past but there was no way they could share a future, which meant that following up on his instinctive, powerful, astonishingly familiar attraction just wasn’t on. There’d be nowhere for it to go. The attitudes that had separated them hadn’t changed. There were feelings they’d never talked about or dealt with.

“Turn it,” she said. He couldn’t even work out what she meant, for a moment. “I think the first setting has to be for the broiler plate, and the second is for the oven.”

“Right. Yes.”

“If we put the temperature at about 320…” She did so, and at last the oven responded. They heard a fan start up, and when Stacey picked up the casserole and Jake opened the oven door, they could already feel warmth spilling onto their faces.

“Bingo!” he said.

“Great things happen when two powerful minds work together, Lo—Jake.”

She’d almost called him Logan, the way she had yesterday in her office, but she’d read the same danger into those old teasing habits as he had, so she’d quickly changed course.

Changing course wasn’t enough. She was frowning now, as if playing out memories of the far darker times they’d shared. They needed to get this out in the open—the ongoing attraction, the sense of familiarity, and all the important things they’d never said.

“Let’s get a drink and go somewhere where we can talk,” he said.

But the timing was impossible. Jillian raised her voice right at that moment. “Everybody?” The kitchen and adjoining sunroom had filled with people and the noise level of numerous conversations had climbed. If the music he’d put on earlier was still playing, he couldn’t hear it anymore, and people hadn’t heard Jillian, either.

“Everyone?” she repeated, speaking louder this time. She sounded nervous, as if she didn’t want to do this but would do it anyhow, on principle. “Can I have your attention for a minute? Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” The room quieted.

“You’re right, Jillian,” said her brother Eric. “We should talk about why most of us are here.”

“Jake?” She turned to him. “Do you want to recap? Tell everyone what happened when we met up in Seattle?”

“I think you should do that,” he told her. “You were the one who approached me, and I know that took some guts, under the circumstances.”

He heard a tiny sound from Stacey, still standing beside him. She didn’t move, but she looked interested and curious—as well she might. He felt awkward about the fact that everyone—his brothers, his cousins, their partners, spouses, dates and friends—would see the two of them standing like a couple at such a significant moment.

Jillian nodded. “All right,” she agreed quietly, then raised her voice again. “Many of you know this part. I saw Jake’s name on a conference program in Seattle a few months ago, and realized from his looks and his age and his biography in the conference program that he had to be one of those Logans. You know the ones, Robbie, Eric, Bridget? The ones we never speak about? The ones we never see? The ones who might as well not exist?”

They nodded. The family knew. Some people didn’t.

“I listened to Jake give his presentation on infertility and emotional well-being, and at first I thought I’d just sneak out afterward and not say anything—the way we’ve not said anything to or about Lawrence Logan and his family almost our whole lives. But then I thought, ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’ Here I was, a social worker, listening to a doctor talk about family dysfunction and family healing. And the doctor was my own cousin. And I hadn’t met or spoken to him ever, because my father couldn’t forgive his father for things that had happened twenty and thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years?” murmured his brother Scott’s date, as if dinosaurs had still roamed the earth.

“So when the session was over, I went up to him,” Jillian continued. “My legs were shaking. I had no idea what kind of a reception I’d get.”

“But you came up to me anyhow, Jillian.” Jake picked up the story. “For those of you who don’t know this—”

He threw a brief glance at Stacey, but there would be others, he knew. His brother Ryan’s girlfriend, Brian and Carrie Summers, their friend Lisa. There were several more unfamiliar faces, also. His stepsister Suzie was here and had brought a date, as had Scott. His cousin Eric’s wife, Jenny, had brought her brother Jordan, a high-power corporate attorney.

“Thirty-one years ago, our cousin Robbie was kidnapped.” He saw Nancy squeeze her husband’s hand and frown at his words. “It was a devastating event for my uncle and aunt, as you can imagine. My parents wanted to help, but Uncle Terrence couldn’t accept that kind of support from them. As brothers, their life choices and priorities had always been at odds, and I know my uncle was racked with a belief that if he’d been a better father, Robbie would never have disappeared.”

There was a murmur from the listeners.

“My father was hurt by the repeated rebuffs,” Jake continued, “and when he went on, a decade later, to write his two bestselling books on family values he was careless in the case studies he chose. One of them was strongly based on his brother, Terrence, and if there had been any chance of reconciliation before the books were published, there certainly wasn’t once they achieved their stellar success. Hardest to Forgive stayed at the top of the New York Times Nonfiction Bestseller List for forty-three weeks.”

Beside him, Stacey made another sound. She’d read it. Millions of people had. It had surpassed even the sales of his dad’s first book, The Most Important Thing.

“There were some crucial sections in the second book which Dad intended as an attempt to reach out to his brother, but unfortunately the timing was bad.”

“With both books the timing was bad,” Jillian said. “A false lead had come up regarding Robbie’s whereabouts. I know my parents received several fresh blows over the years. Although we all shared their anguish, we were just kids. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like.”

At the back of the room, Robbie nodded, while his wife, Nancy, squeezed his arm. Jake had only been four years old at the time, but the suffering on both sides of the Logan family had been fierce for years afterward. He still had some distant memories of phone calls and police cars and angry confrontations—of his parents trying to help his aunt and uncle, his mother bringing casseroles, his father wanting to hand out fliers, and all their efforts being rebuffed.