Say You'll Marry Me

He wasn’t pitch perfect, but the low, husky tone of his voice was effective enough to set off a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

Her friend Kevin in Nashville would’ve charged up the ladder already, but Joy crept up the worn rungs and carefully peeked her head through the opening. Logan sat on a bale of hay with his back partially facing her, guitar resting on one jean-clad knee as he played snippets of a song about home, and the heart, and the dirt where one’s dreams were buried.

Again, the music cut off abruptly, and he leaned over the instrument to pick up a pencil and scribble on a notebook resting on the hay in front of him.

She studied his profile as he paused, eyes closed, lips moving to form words she couldn’t quite make out. When he opened his eyes again, quick, rough movements struck through whatever he’d previously written, the pencil was dropped, and his fingers returned to the guitar strings. Whatever he’d discarded was replaced by a stroke of inspiration.

He played for almost a full minute, working the strings as he repeated the same chorus over and over to get it just right, each time sending chills down her spine. The gruff emotion in his voice put a lump in her throat.

By the time he paused to write again, she felt like she was intruding on a private moment, and decided to leave. Her riding boot slipped on the round, wooden rungs worn smooth from years of use. She frantically scrambled to hold on, her alarmed squeak echoing up into the rafters.

Logan startled and whirled to face her as she regained her balance. Above his stubble-covered jaw, anger flushed his cheeks red. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you,” she explained, her voice high from the slip and being caught. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He set the guitar aside as he surged to his feet. “How long were you there?”

She hesitated, debating to stay or beat a hasty retreat. In the end, the heartfelt music and lyrics prompted her to finish her climb into the loft and face him despite the heat burning her own face. “Long enough. I didn’t know you played.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He could say that again. She’d have never expected the poignant words from a moment ago to have come from his mouth.

“You’re pretty good. Do you ever play at the local bars or any music festivals? I wouldn’t mind listening sometime.”

His expression tightened as he shook his head and stepped forward, between her and the hay bale where his guitar rested. As if to protect the instrument from her. Or hide it. Either way, he was clearly not willing to talk about music with her.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

You.

But it wasn’t like she could come right out and say that. It wouldn’t sound right at all, and the way he’d hear it was definitely not the way she’d mean it. Her gaze swept down over his snug, faded red T-shirt and jeans. Then again—

No, don’t go there!

She jerked her attention back up. “I wanted to talk to you about my grandma. Yesterday afternoon…”

His anger eased slightly, giving way for a hint of sympathy. “Yeah. That was different.”

“Well, in her mind, you’re Luke. Unfortunately, it’s only going to get worse with you at the ranch every day.”

He stiffened as a frown furrowed his brow. “I’ve been at the ranch almost every day for a couple years now.”

“I know, bu

t for some reason, she’s suddenly convinced herself that you’re Luke.”

“Great. So, what, am I fired? You want me to quit?”

Joy reared her head back in surprise at the return of his anger. “No, of course not. In fact…”

She trailed off as the rest of her sentence played in her head. Cripes, he would think she was as loony as her grandma. She cringed—sorry, Gram, I know you’re not crazy. But I think I might be.

“In fact, what?” Logan prompted.

She drew in a deep breath, and forged ahead. “I think I have a solution that might work for all of us.”

“And what would that be?”