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He checked his appearance in the mirror one last time, smoothed the front of his navy-blue suit, and exhaled. It was do or die. Time to prove what he was made of. Time to show Marti how good they could be together and that love was worth the risk. He wouldn’t leave just because she pushed him away.
He hurried from the bathroom and grabbed his keys off the hook by the door when his phone bleeped. Snatching it up, he checked the screen—a text from his sister. Four ominous words stared back at him.
Brittney: You’d better see this.
He scowled down at the link she sent. Something told him he didn’t want to see it, but he clicked on it anyway. PopNewz’s familiar logo loaded first.
He swallowed. This was it; Marti had finally concocted a breakup story.
His muscl
es coiled as it loaded, preparing himself for the worst.
Then he read the headline, and his knees buckled.
THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR came rapid-fire.
Logan shook his glass, rattling the ice, then tipped it back and slugged the last dregs of whiskey. Maybe if he finished the bottle, it would be enough to drown his self-loathing. This was his fault—his idea. She warned him—way back when they started their fake relationship—Marti told him not to fall in love with her. But he did anyway.
What a fool.
The pounding on his door increased, but he was in no condition to see anyone. He shuffled into the kitchen and stopped in front of the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, setting his empty glass down. Having already gone to his head, the whiskey swirled in his gut. He placed his hands on the counter, head bowed. He abandoned his suit coat long ago, and his tie hung uselessly around his neck, his shirt only half-tucked. If only she could see me now.
“Logan, answer the door. It’s me!” her voice called out.
His gaze shifted toward the source of the sound, to his closed door, then away again.
Great. He was even hearing her now, conjuring her voice out of thin air.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. How much had he drunk?
His heart thumped heavily in his chest at the thought of her. Clearly, not enough.
To think he was dumb enough to believe what started as a ruse had turned into something real. With the Queen of Single, of all people. He knew she wanted no part of a relationship, and yet, he still allowed himself to fall. Then again, he never would have predicted she’d betray him like this. Though there was no credit given to the article, it was under Marti’s column. Enough said.
Well, hello, pain. Stupidity came with a price.
Another knock rattled the door, followed by the same voice—her voice. “Logan. Please, it’s Marti. I assume you saw the article, which is why you’re not letting me in, but let me explain.”
Logan’s head snapped in the direction of the door and he frowned. That didn’t sound like his imagination.
Whiskey glass forgotten, he made his way to the front door and opened it to reveal his dream come true and his worst nightmare all rolled into one.
The impact of her presence was like a sledgehammer to the chest. Every part of him ached at the sight of her.
She stood in his doorway, forehead crinkled with worry, blue eyes earnest. Her auburn locks lay in a trail of waves over her shoulders left bare from a little black dress—the one she must have worn to her father’s wedding.
Of course, she wore black to her father’s wedding. For her, it was like going to a funeral.
His fingers twitched with the urge to slam the door in her face. The only thing he wanted was to drown his feelings in the whiskey bottle sitting on his kitchen and forget her face. Those eyes. That mouth. But the urge to hear what she had to say outweighed his need for escape.
Call him a glutton for punishment.
He turned away from the door—stumbled more like it—allowing her inside as he headed back into the kitchen where he swiped the whiskey bottle off the counter and took a pull straight from the bottle. Lowering it, he took in her face creased with concern, licked his lips and waited.
“Logan . . .” Marti held her hands out like he might bite. Like she was talking to a caged animal.
It ticked him off.
