“He was always really intense about me—wanted to know where I was, what I was doing. But I never would have cheated on him. He says I scared him. That’s why he did it, apparently.”
“You probably did scare him.” Logan says, eyes boring into me. “Weak men do stupid things. I’m sorry it happened, but I’m glad you’re rid of him.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
He doesn’t smile. He looks away, jaw working, and finishes his bourbon in one quick sip, setting the glass down with a quiet click.
“Anyway,” I say, lighter than I feel. “That’s why I moved in with Easton.”
Logan pushes back his chair and stands, and when he extends his hand toward me, his eyes are steady on mine. “Dance with me.”
Chapter 8: Logan
Idon’t know what’s come over me. One minute, she’s the parasitic succubus stealing all my attention, and the next…
The next, I’m watching her from across the table and thinking I may have had her completely wrong.
Pearl told me Rose cheated on her boyfriend. Add that to everything I learned about Easton, and I don’t know what’s true anymore. Whatever is happening between the two sisters, I don’t understand it and don’t want to be in the middle of it.
But right here, right now, Rose and I are two people, stranded in a rainstorm in the middle of nowhere, and none of the other bullshit matters.
I can’t stop watching her mouth—the way she licks her lips after every sip of cider. The way her throat moves when she swallows. I’ve been trying not to stare at her across this table for the better part of an hour and failing. Warring with myself as my thoughts turn darker. To the way her t-shirt pulls across her chest. What her tits would feel like in my hands, how they’d look, bouncing with her on my lap.
After holding my hand out for a beat too long as she likely runs through all the reasons this is a bad idea, Rose’s hand folds into mine. I pull her up and lead her to the dance floor, where the song has changed again to something slower. The tensionbuilding between us for days hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s only gotten sharper.
She’s nothing like I thought she’d be.
Her hand is warm. Small. I like the way it fits. She follows me to the edge of the mostly empty dance floor, and I slip my hand around her waist, pulling her close. I’ve always watched her—the way she moves, the sway of her hips, the confident set of her shoulders despite how small she is. She’s the most beautiful woman in any room she walks into, and yet, that’s the least interesting thing about her.
It takes her a moment to relax. Her hand slides up around my shoulder. I have to lean slightly for her to reach, which only pulls us closer together. She feels so warm and soft in my arms.
We fall into an easy rhythm—back a step, she follows, to the side and forward—like two lovers who have done this a hundred times before.
Somewhere between the crash, the diner, the long hours in the car, the storm, the truck that nearly killed us, the motel room with only one bed—something’s shifted. We’ve unlocked what feels less like an easy alliance and more like a dare.
Tomorrow we’ll be at the resort, and that’ll be the end of it. Whatever Rose is or isn’t, whatever’s true or not—it changes nothing. We live in different worlds. Not because of the money—whatever she might assume. It’s the ambition. Nothing has ever derailed my career, and I can’t be with someone who doesn’t have that same drive. Rose told me herself she’s broke, and I know she isn’t working. So she lives in Easton’s penthouse, and does what all day, exactly?
But what she and I do have is right now. Here, away from all the things that matter.
Rose’s fingers find my nape and slip into my hair. The sensation moves through me like rainfall, and I pull her closer, my hand sliding past her waist to her hip, gripping the way I’vethought about for years. I fucking love the way she feels. Warm and soft. Thick. If I moved further down, I’d get a palm full of her ass, but that’s a bad idea in public because the next thing I’d be doing is lifting her clear off the floor and shoving her against the wall.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” Rose says quietly. I love her voice. Low and raspy, like she’s just woken up. I could listen to her read a weather report, and it would probably give me a hard on.
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
She goes quiet for a moment as we sway. The song changes, but neither of us moves apart. And then, “What are we doing?”
“Hell if I know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” I agree, my hand tightening at her hip. She lets out a soft sound and turns her head away, like she didn’t mean to let it escape.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” she says. I like that about her. That she’s not playing games right now or making me guess, just says what she’s thinking, even if her honesty costs her something.
“Probably not.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me. “You’re not going to argue with me?”
