“Not just them.”
I cock my head to one side. “I’m not exactly afraid of paparazzi walking in on us in your private hotel room, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“But you should be afraid of crazy people online snapping pictures of us eating dinner. If wewentto dinner.”
“I don’t see why I should care anymore,” I say, my voice coming out sounding measured and stilted in a way that’s so obviously not normal for me. But I’m attempting to have restraint. “People finding out who I am would be a good thing. I’m an artist. I want to sell paintings and photographs. I don’t know why you see fame like it’s a vampire that eats people alive.”
I never want Logan to think I’m mad athim.
But I am frustrated with the machine that surrounds his life. I’m sick of having to consider the rest of the world when all I want is to consider Logan.
As I’m lost in thought, he leans in.
And out of nowhere, he presses a small kiss to the side of my head.
It almost takes my breath.
It’s so unexpected that I let out a quick exhale, feeling every cell in my body respond just to that small amount of touch. His lips are warm, and the proximity is enough to pull me back down to Earth.
“Can I tell you something, and you have to promise not to say anything back?” he asks, just above my ear.
“I promise.”
“Yes, I missed you too. I missed you so goddamn much this year,” he says, and some hungry monster inside me suddenly feels even more fed. “I convinced myself I didn’t, because I kept myself busy. But the moment I saw you again, I knew it was a lie. I don’t know what to think, or do, and I’m not good with emotions in the first place. I just want to shield you from fucking everything. Fameislike a vampire. I’ve seen it kill people, Chase. But ofcourseI fucking missed you.”
I stay silent.
Something dark twists inside me as I process what he said.
This isn’t just a normal reaction to your fame.
Maybe it wasn't last year, either.
It’s more.
What happened, to make you so protective? And when you say you’ve seen fame kill people… do you mean it literally?
I bring my hand to his back, gently stroking my palm down his spine and showing him that I’m listening.
It’s like Logan has two modes. The first one is absolutely unreadable, calm, placid expressions. And the second mode is the most raw and vulnerable glimpses of emotion I’ve ever seen in a man.
He runs his thumb over my jaw before he moves away again.
And as I look at the pain in his face, I feel a living magnettake hold inside me. Every urge inside me is begging to bring him close to me again.
He stands up quickly, though. He holds up a finger, then walks off down the hall, disappearing into one of the rooms. He returns soon after with a different envelope in his hand. He walks up and gives it to me.
“Did you write me a love letter?” I ask, peering at the envelope. “Damn, Logan. I’m flattered.”
“Open it later.”
I stand up, shoving it into my pocket. “Logan, I just want you to know something. If I ended up doing a photoshoot for you, for some magazine, Iwouldn’tget the fame or scrutiny you’re so afraid of. If I was just your photographer, I’d get some minor attention from niche fashion pages, and maybe some low-level notoriety among other artists. But it wouldn’t be the kind of fame you have. It wouldn’t even be close.”
He looks at me like he’s weighing the truth of what I said.
I can tell he knows I’m right.
Fashion photographers don’t have Princess Diana-level fame, which is what Logan seems to be so afraid of.
