Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Beth K. Vogt Read Free Book Online Page A

matter—”
    â€œOh, come on! What you did was amazing.”
    Vanessa clutched the blanket closer. “Vanessa. Vanessa Hollister.”
    â€œDo you live here?”
    â€œNo.” She kept her eyes averted, knowing Logan watched her. “I don’t live here.”
    â€œHow do you feel—”
    â€œI’m wet. And tired. And you’re not a reporter.” She rubbed the soft cotton of the blanket across her face and bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap like that.”
    â€œI understand. You’ve got to be exhausted.” The man stepped back, one hand held up, the video camera still pointed at her face. “No problem.”
    As the man turned his attention on Logan, Vanessa saw her chance to escape. Besides, did she really want to hear the whole Wow, you both have the same last name—how funny is that? reaction?
    There was no reason for her to wait around to see if a professional reporter showed up. She’d done her job—just in a different state. She’d pray the teen would be okay and could watch the news for that information. Hope he would be smart enough not to go swimming in the Gulf again after drinking too many beers just because his friends dared him.
    She’d learned the hard way how foolish it was to take stupid risks. How you could lose your life— yourself —if you weren’t careful.

FOUR

    A wise girl knows her limits, a smart girl knows that she has none.
    â€”MARILYN MONROE (1926–1962), ACTRESS
    S anctuary.
    Vanessa retreated to her hotel room—the stillness a buffer from all that she could have said to her ex-husband. The activity of the paramedics. The growing crowd of gawkers—and the arriving news team. Only when her sand-covered feet made contact with the cool of the lobby tile did she realize she’d left her sandals behind somewhere. She ignored the stare of the front desk clerk, holding her head high as she walked past, avoiding the elevator and climbing the stairs to her room.
    Thank God the plastic key card to her room had somehow remained in the pocket of her shorts, not ending up in the Gulf with her sweatshirt. The air-conditioning blew a frigid kiss against her chapped lips, threading unseen fingers through her hair where it lay against her neck.
    If she wasn’t soaking wet . . . if her legs weren’t shaking as if she’d just swum an Olympic trial . . . if her eyes weren’t stinging from salt water . . . she’d book the first flight back to Colorado and insist Ted go back to their original plan to get married in their home church.
    Tomorrow.
    Not in April.
    As another shiver shook her body, Vanessa turned off the air-conditioning. Then she opened the off-white vertical blinds and yanked open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of metal scraping against the cement going right up her spine. Dropping to the carpet the damp blanket the onlooker had draped around her shoulders, she turned back to her bed, pulled back the bedspread, and removed the blanket underneath. Her journal fell to the floor.
    It was as if daring to read a few entries earlier had conjured Logan Hollister out of the past and onto the beach—just as she’d feared.
    She picked the book up from where it lay facedown, pages splayed open against the muted blue carpeting. Her handwriting skimmed across the pages, a silent dare to face the past scrawled across the pages. Sentences. Paragraphs. Words and more words that lured her into memories best forgotten.
    Funny. I put the rings away, but I look down at my hand and I still expect to see them. Of course, I’ve only been divorced for twenty-four hours. I need to give it some time. I was Vanessa Hollister before I married Logan—and I’m still Vanessa Hollister. No one needs to know that there are actually two different versions of the same woman.
    Logan and I didn’t even say goodbye to each